For the Nonce: a collection of shorts
by sekdaniels
Summary: A variety of works for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition season 6. Each chapter will be a fulfillment of a different prompt for the QLFC along with associated challenges and drabbles. Fun for all — check the AN for info on story content. This round finds me playing with the Next Gen.
1. Infirm of Purpose: a dream

Author's Note: Written for Round 1 of the QLFC 6

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: write in a genre that you have never used before (horror)

Prompts Used:

3 (quote) "Adventure is not outside man; it is within." - George Eliot

8 (object) knife

9 (word) homemade

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2357

A/N: with many a tip of the hat to the Bard himself for the title and inspiration for this work. Horror is a genre that I think can be more nuanced that just blood and gore, but I've found the will to add a bit of both, just for good measure.

Also, there is no specified time frame for this piece, although I do not see it occurring prior to Year 5 or beyond. Could fit into a universe where SS survives or be a "sliding door" of LL during her time at Hogwarts, but before the final battle. Either way, it is most certainly AU from the cannon.

* * *

 **Infirm of Purpose: a dream**

She could not remember what caused her to wake so early. The sun had barely peaked the horizon to pierce the tall tower of the Ravenclaw dormitory when her eyes fluttered open.

The sight that greeted them was a horror.

From crown to foot, Luna found herself sticky and matted. One glance at her caked fingers told her it was blood. As she frantically patted herself over, she only felt more tacky globules of coagulation, places that were still warm and damp, catching her hands in her hair and on her robes. Everywhere she looked was a red ruin; her coverlet, her pillows, her sheets.

Beside her bed lay a knife; carved bone and sharp steel. Nondescript, but for the gore that covered it. Bloody fingerprints were smeared from pommel to crossguard.

She wanted to scream, but she didn't dare. What if someone found her? What if they saw her like this? She stuffed her hands in her mouth and bit down to stop herself, her body convulsing with fear and agony. It was too much to take in; she had no anchor tethering her to anything solid. It was all pulling apart into little fragments like a shattered mirror.

Her fingers were sweet.

They were covered in blood, and in her mouth, and she felt a sickening sensation in her stomach as it roiled in the realization of what she was doing—or what she had done—or—

The threads were fraying faster. And suddenly, the knife was in her hand again.

She ran.

How? How would she explain this? How _could_ she? She had no idea what had happened.

Luna was accustomed to sleepwalking. It was more than occasional. She slept in her shoes, for Merlin's sake; _that's_ how common it was for her.

But she had never woken up like this.

The halls seemed darker than normal. She plunged headlong into spaces that were more shadow than real and ran until her legs gave out, leaving her panting on the floor on her hands and knees. She thought she might have made it as far as the ground floor. Maybe.

She abandoned her robes and threw off her shoes, suddenly determined to no longer hear the squelching of the blood that had been absorbed by her socks. She peeled them off, two gruesome red rounds of cotton, pooling onto the carpet. She closed her eyes. She needed to understand what was happening to her. But how?

And when she peeled her lashes apart again, the knife sat at her feet, glistening; newly wet and vibrating with it's own anger. She backed away, creeping up the wall to gain her feet.

And she ran.

Darkness reigned in the castle. Luna stumbled more times than she could count. With each spill or fall, she would open more wounds of her own. Scrapes and cuts abounded from the stone walls, while nails seemed to jump into her path as they grasped for purchase or braced for stability. Glass shards cut her feet, and then her shins and hands when she crawled.

This was like not sleepwalking. Of that, she was sure. It was a nightmare worse than that.

And still, she ran.

When she burst through the door into the chill night air, it was shocking. Hadn't it only just been morning? Hadn't she woken up this way?

The dew on the grass stung her feet. She continued to walk slowly out into the night, her vision as diminished outside as it had been in. As she made her way, she gulped in the cold air, feeling more clarity of mind with every deep breath. Clarity was not a relief.

 _Fear. Rage. Agony. Was there a reason I did not kill for?_ She was not waking from this dream.

There was no feeling left in her when she reached the edge of the lake, its thin, icy crust giving way beneath her toes. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to be clean. She stood, facing into the wind that blew across the open plain of the water and reached up for the first button at her throat. Nothing made sense anymore; but did it ever?

And she found the knife, again. Tucked into the waist of her skirt.

"' _What, will these hands ne'er be clean?'_ " she cried out into the night as she threw herself into the water.

 **XXXXX**

He surged through the doors to the Infirmary bedraggled and covered in gillyweed. Madame Pomfrey had a smile on her face and an admonishment on her lips until she saw the crumpled body in his arms.

"Sh—sh—sh—she w—w—was in th—th—th—the l—l—l—lake. Sh—she w—w—was i—in th—the L—lake." He let out a shivering exhalation and tried again. "S—She w—w—was in the l—lake!"

The matron was instantly a flurry of motion. She called for several vials of potions while on her way across the room to meet Severus Snape and his charge at the nearest bed. Pushing two flasks of Pepper Up potion at him, she also waved him over with a warming charm while pulling back bed sheets and beginning the assessment of what seemed to be one Luna Lovegood.

"I've taken away your shakes," she said without looking. "You can work on drying yourself. And be efficient. I need to know everything, and now!" She continued to work over the cold, blue, wrinkled body in the bed.

"There isn't much I can say," he said, waving his wand over this clothes twice over to remove all the water. "I was making my way back from the herb garden behind Hagrid's hut when I noticed something white floating on the water. I approached the shore and—well, I rushed her here as soon as I could manage." Snape found he was still rubbing his hands together to warm them. The chill was bone deep.

"I will need to work on bringing up her body temperature. Perhaps when she regains consciousness, she can help us put the pieces together." Madame Pomfrey continued to bustle about her charge, mumbling to herself and casting charms about the patient. Luna lay stock still, already a corpse if not for the occasional blinking of her eyelids.

"Let me see if her rooms shed any light," Snape offered. His talents were most definitely _not_ of the healing kind, and he loathed to be useless. He swooped out of the infirmary in long, purposeful strides for Ravenclaw Tower.

It was on his way that he heard the commotion that diverted him. He ducked into the theater at the bottom of the North Tower. It was clear from the mumbling and crying that he had come far enough, and he was grateful to have been spared the narrow stairwell and steep climb to the classrooms above.

"Sybill?" he burst through a door off-stage right into a working anti-room. Sybill Trelawney sat surrounded by bolts of cloth, renderings of material that had, perhaps at one time, been costumes. At first sight, they seemed like nothing more than random heaps of silk and velvet. Professor Trelawney snapped around, unsteady, surprised by the unexpected intrusion on top of the mess she sat in the midst of.

"Severus? Wha—w—whatever are you doing here?" she gasped, tears clearly wet on her face. She made no move to hide them.

"I—I heard your sobs. What has happened here?" he realized too late he had no cover story for why he would be in the North Tower. It was not a place he frequented, and, not knowing the nature of Luna's ailment, he was loathe to speak of it. He frowned, reflecting on his lack of preparedness.

Sybill did not have either the clarity or keenness of mind to probe. "I wish I knew—" she began to tear up again. "This _was_ costuming I was working on for our Spring production. I had gotten ( _hiccup_ ) a bit ( _hiccup_ ) ahead and ( _hiccup_ )—oh! I can't ( _hiccup_ ) seem ( _hiccup_ ) to ( _hiccup_ ) stop ( _hiccup_ ).

"Have a seat. I'll get you a glass of water."

She settled herself in a nearby chair and Snape continued through the room towards another door that let him out back beyond the stage, into the bowels of the rigging in search of cup he could use.

What greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

The stage craft itself had been upended and tortured. Knots riddled the curtain ropes, lights hung precariously from their moorings with bulbs shattered and crushed underfoot. Dishes, cups and candles lay smashed and strewn about the floor. He kneeled down and placed his fingers in a sticky puddle of liquid on the floor. The weak light showed it to be as red as fresh blood, but his sensitive nose told him that it was far too sweet-smelling to be the genuine article. Cautiously, he put a finger to his tongue.

"Stage blood," he whispered aloud to no one.

And then, it came to him.

 _Props_.

He stormed back into the room. "What play is this?" he yelled at her.

"What?"

"What play?" he demanded with his usual impatience heightened by the urgency of his task. "What production are you staging here, Sybill? Think!"

"I—uh—um, Macbeth. We're going to perform ( _hiccup_ ) Macbeth! Why?"

He cringed, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment at the blunder. Anyone who truly understood theater knew not to say the name of "The Scottish Play" when in-house, but he couldn't stop to argue theatrical superstition with Sybill now. He was beginning to suspect that Luna's problem wasn't about breaking with theatrical tradition. It was entirely magical; and cursed all the same.

"And this?" he pointed to the dress on the form. Elegant in its simplicity, it was beautiful; except of course, that it was a catastrophe of bloodied handprints and smears. Conspicuous for the dagger-sized hole at the breast. He ran his fingers over the rent, probing it's depth into the batting beneath. It was not shallow.

"F—f—for Lady Mac—Macbeth," Sybill stammered. "I had been working on it just last night. I had a fit of inspiration." She turned her face, moving her eyes from the costume to him, and then to the floor.

Severus wrapped his arms tightly about his chest in an effort to ward off a growing chill. He stepped back, continuing to consider the mannequin and it's grotesque display.

"Had you cast yet?" he finally asked. "The _production_ , I mean. Had you cast your actors?"

"No. But I _was_ surprised by some of the auditions, and had been fretting over a somewhat controversial choice. Thankfully, I had the holidays over which to mull the decision."

"I think I know of whom you speak," he answered. "Did she have any inkling that you were considering her for a role?"

"Not that I know of," Sybill answered. "She was here helping to inventory the property, as she was want to do during breaks. I believe she expected to be the Prop Mistress again; she seemed to enjoy the job. It suited her."

 _The props. The knife. The homemade blood._

He flew back to the Infirmary, all but earning his Dungeon Bat moniker in his haste.

"There is an object!" he shouted across the empty room towards Madame Pomfrey as she tended to the only occupant in the Infirmary. "Find it. It's on her." He was racing towards the sickbed as Poppy was pulling back the covers from Luna.

The knife fell out of the folds of sheets.

"NO!" he shouted as Poppy reached for it. "Don't touch it!"

He retrieved his wand swiftly from the sleeve of his robes and gently levitated the knife off of the bed. Luna's eyes shot open, and she screamed like an animal in a trap.

"Cursed," he whispered.

"What do we do?" she asked. Her hands were already knotted together as she fretted over the girl's broken body. A Healer like Poppy Pomfrey was unused to being helpless when it came to taking care of her charges.

"She is beyond our care, Poppy. We _must_ alert St. Mungo's."

"Will she—?"

"I don't know."

He eased the knife back down towards her, and Luna's hand grasped at the hilt, covetously. She seemed to calm, but Severus suspected that in her mind, it was anything but calm. He sat on the foot of her bed, and tentatively reached in.

 _Legilimens._

And the world went red.

Snape saw Luna's struggle against the curse. The knife, falling awkwardly out of the box of dinnerware. Luna grabbing it up and placing it away from the other flatware, thinking it was a weapon that had been misplaced. And later, when she instead found it in her pocket as she made her way back towards the storage closet with the other swords—her "forgetting" to leave it among it's fellow weapons. The blade traveling with her back to the dormitory, quietly nestled into her robes; and into her mind.

All the violence Luna had taken on had been _real_ to her. The dress form in the green room had, instead, been Cho Chang, who she'd grabbed, wrestled to the ground and stabbed in the chest. Each cloak and kilt had been a student, a friend, a parent...and with each, the hold of the accursed blade grew stronger in her mind.

As he released the spell, Snape felt himself deflate with exhaustion. Luna sat, tranquil; as if made of stone. He watched her, knowing that within, her mind spun in increasingly vicious circles.

"What did you see?" Poppy asked, timidly.

"' _Adventure is not outside man; it is within.'_ "

"Pardon me?"

"Sorry," Snape replied. "Just something I read somewhere once.

"It could not be more apt considering what I just saw."

Madame Pomfrey frowned, considering the citation. "The results of it seem much more a horror than an adventure," she finally said.

"Not all adventures are wonderful or exciting," he replied, softly. "Some are horrible, and painful, and never-ending.

"Who would know that better than I?"

He rose, and left without looking back. He had his own terrors. Luna would have to face hers alone.


	2. The Long Goodbye

Author's Note: Written for Round 2 of the QLFC 6 — Jurassic Fever

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Triceratops: write about a 'light' character protecting themselves

Prompts Used:

4 (colour) turquoise

6 (word) proof

15 (object) Philosopher's Stone

Add'l prompts:

1 (work) ancient

2 (colour) forest green

9 (colour) light grey

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1706

 **A/N:** AU — Alice Longbottom's history is unwritten or hinted at by the author, so while all of this _could_ fit into cannon, I have no way of knowing that it did so. This is only my thoughts on how she might have been as a person, and how she and Frank might have experienced their last days together.

Parrishis a reference to Maxfield Parrish, the early 20th C. painter and illustrator who was known for using a very distinctive shade of blue in his works that was named for him.

Turquoise, as a stone, is an opaque blue-to-green mineral forming crystals in a massive, nodular habit. While my prompt asks for use of the colour, I am also incorporating aspects of the gemstone as part of Alice Longbottom's interpretation of the stone in her pocket. Since she is unable to see it clearly, and experiences a failing sense of reality during the course of this story, her first impressions of the Philosopher's Stone is based on how it resembles a stone she is already familiar with; in this case, turquoise.

The Philosopher's Stone, in medieval lore as well as Rowling's universe, was thought to extend life and change (or transmute) certain other metals into gold. Here I focus on it's life-extending properties.

Finally, there are many definitions for the word, proof. I have focused on the following definitions.

Proof: 1) evidence sufficient to establish a thing as true, or to produce belief in its truth.

3) the act of testing or making trial of anything; test; trial

8) _Mathematics, Logic:_ a sequence of steps, statements, or demonstrations that leads to a valid conclusion.

 **The Long Goodbye**

Alice couldn't say when she first noticed it. In the tumult of being kidnapped and the subsequent days of torture, it hadn't exactly been the first thing on her mind. The lump in her pocket; heavy, hard, conspicuous — when one was conscious, anyway.

Every time she pried her eyes open and peered into the gloom, her first thought was always of Frank. He lived; as did she, much to her added confusion. At least that was how it appeared in the darkness. She could be imaging the ever-so subtle rise and fall of his chest, but when she dared endure the screaming of her own muscles to reach out and place her hand on his chest, she was rewarded with the confirmation of his respiration. It eased her pain, if only in the smallest way.

They had always known that what they fought for was serious; that their opponent was equally serious. Alice never had any delusions of grandeur when it came to her abilities, and Frank was equally pragmatic — and she loved that about him. Wizards far better than they had already given their lives. Witches with far more experience and skill had been tricked and trapped. Still, Alice and Frank Longbottom chose to serve rather than to stand by and watch. They chose to be part of the solution, no matter how small they perceived their contributions to be. Certainly, Albus and the rest reassured them that they were valued members of the Order, but sometimes — well, Alice had her doubts. It might have been the first time in her life.

Proof was immutable. Unassailable. Definite. And from the time she could remember, long before she had become an Auror, or a Longbottom, or even a witch, it was something Alice was always striving for. Growing up, she detested fairy tales. They never made any sense! And even at Hogwarts, she eschewed the less tangible subjects of study, like Divination, in favor of solid, practical magic. Care of Magical Creatures. Herbology. Potions. These were things Alice could dig into; things she could put her hands on.

And, then there was Frank.

She understood her parents' hesitation over the marriage. They were so young; just out of school and barely able to do a load of laundry between the two of them. Yet, Alice had known since the moment she'd met Frank that there wasn't anyone who she'd love better. She could not be swayed. And what was more, she was unfailing in her belief that anyone could love _her_ better than Frank Longbottom. His ability to talk with her, to share her burdens and support her passions was matched only by those she was closest to in the world — her family. In Alice's mind, the proof was plain.

In the end, it was her father who completed the equation.

"You are sure?" he asked.

Alice only beamed, looking at him through smile-squinted eyes. "You _know_ me, Da."

It was all the proof he ever asked for. He _did_ know her.

Now, as they lay here, in a cold, damp dark, covered in their own filth, enduring endless days and nights of interrogations and indignities at the hands of Death Eaters, she wondered if it made any difference. She wondered if this was the proof of their folly in believing anything they did mattered.

Her world shrank to what she could see and feel. She wasn't sure how long they had been imprisoned or where; she only knew that with every passing moment she was drifting away — losing parts of herself in the darkness. She had only the pain in her chest when she breathed, and the hope that she'd see Frank one more time. Passing thoughts of her dark-haired boy, and terror.

Then, there was this rock.

She must've rolled over onto it, at first. Or been flung back into their cell in such a way that she landed on it. She could not remember how it had happened. She only found her hand slowly creeping its way down to the throbbing agony at her hip. When her fingertips alighted on the protrusion, Alice started. She thought it was a broken bone; her leg coming through her skin or some other grotesque injury. She could not fathom, once she had managed to maneuver the stone out of her pants and into her hand, how it had gotten there. In the weak light, it looked to be any regular stone and yet, it was something entirely more. It was in turns as pink as a sunset, and the deep green of a forest in shadow, or the light grey of a rainy morning. It was the deep turquoise of a Parrish-invented sky, and the sweet blushed gold of a ripe pear. As feeble of mind as she was, she was no longer sure she could trust her eyes. And so, she used her other senses.

It felt rounded, but still gnarled; like a piece of petrified wood. Just large enough to sit in her palm. And it was warm. It radiated heat just like the sun-baked pebbles she and Frank had plucked from the beaches of Majorca on their honeymoon. It soothed her to touch it, to rub her tender nerve-endings along its nobby bits and bumps in the quiet moments of consciousness that she still had. It focused her; helped her to remember, to think.

Without proof, she started to suspect it was helping her stay alive.

She wasn't sure how or why or even if that idea was correct. She only knew she was drawn to touch the stone. She knew that she felt better — _stronger_ — when she did so. She knew that it had never been discovered by her jailors, nor had it fallen out of her clothing despite the damage that was done to them constantly. Alice no longer thought in terms of time; there was no time — only consciousness, unconsciousness, and torment. So, she suspected that it was more than just magical in nature; it was ancient and, perhaps, self-willed. She had heard of things like that, somewhere. Alice thought she remembered a bit of a story someone had told her, long ago, about Godric Gryffindor's sword. That it would be there when it was needed by one with the courage to wield it. She hadn't believed it (How absurd!). Yet now, as her thumb made small, slow circles around one of the nodes of the stone, she began to wonder if there wasn't something to that idea. That inanimate objects could be imbued with more than just magic; that in the right hands, they could be given a sense of self-awareness, of a kind.

It wasn't the sort of thing Alice dwelt on long. There was never time.

In the end, she clung to her life, and her stone, for Frank. He had so much stamina, so much strength. He held up surprisingly well under duress. Even their tormentors had noticed that his body withered, but his mind remained sharp. Alice knew that they took him more frequently; she would awake to find herself alone and could only press her eyelids back together in a feeble attempt at prayer that he would return. And, for a time, he did.

Still, she was sure that _he_ would expire if _she_ did. So she clutched that rock ever tighter, clutching at whatever protection she could for herself; and for him. She scrapped and she clung and she fought for every breath; and she rubbed at the lovely, warm, _living_ stone in her pocket. She knew, if nothing else, that she would do all she could to live, if only one more moment. For him.

It was never quite clear what the endgame was for their captors. They seemed only to desire destruction and anguish. Although, there were times when one of them seemed to pick up the mantle of leadership, of a sort. In those brief instances with the tall, dark shadow, their suffering seemed to be more directed towards a goal of collecting information. Unfortunately, there were many more times where the point was clearly only to break them. And break them they would. Alice was sure of that now. Every day was a struggle just to hold on to the pieces of herself that made her _Alice_. Her once short, modernly-styled hair was falling in her eyes. Her clothes were mere tatters, providing neither warmth nor modesty. Her mind was slipping more and more, racing away like autumn leaves rushing down a swollen stream; pieces of her going with it. She could no longer remember the color of her baby boy's eyes. Frank's middle name. Where she was born.

When they returned Frank to her and his eyes no longer had any light in them, she let the rock go. And with it all her pieces went, too. She had done enough. They had done all they could.

The mystery of the gum wrappers had been something of small phenomenon at the Janus Thickey ward for years now. While the severity of mental maladies was their specialty, it was rare that the healers there encountered enough recovery to measure fine motor skills, much less to have enough evidence of it to indicate communication. Yet, for quite a while now, Alice Longbottom had been observed forming and shaping gum wrappers in her hands and, when able, she tried to give them to people. In particular, her son, Neville.

On more than one occasion, Miriam Strout had pondered the oddness of it. Alice wasn't crushing the foil; she had no strength for that. Still, that also had not seemed to be the purpose. Her movements were by no means deft, but they were careful. She only ever wanted to form a mound, of sorts. It was lumpy and misshapen, but never pressed tightly into a ball; and never, _ever_ uniform. Miriam had picked up so many of them over the course of time, she hardly noticed just now much they resembled tiny little rocks.

Miriam frowned as the let the little foil sculptures fall from her hand into the wastebasket at her desk. She decided it was time to write yet another memo to the staff about chewing gum at work.


	3. Oh, Brother!

Author's Note: Written for Round 3 of the QLFC 6 — '90s Nostalgia

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Tamagotchi

Prompts Used:

4 (location) London Underground

11 (object) jumper/ sweater

14 (genre) Family

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1645

 **A/N:** AU Wherein Ron finds himself in possession of a Niffler somewhere just after he leaves Hogwarts to take up a career at the Ministry.

Having to read up on Tamagotchis since I did not grow up with these, I focused on how much like a real pet these were and how that can sometimes not go according to plan.

 **Beta Love** : Le soleil brille pas pour toi, crochetaway, and an extra gold star to Story, Please for going through two different versions. Many thanks.

 **Oh, Brother**

He'd known it was a bad idea when George had proposed it. Ron noticed he didn't see his older brother running around with a Niffler, and he'd said as much. Still, once he'd gotten a look at the adorable little thing, he forgot his objections.

 _And now it's going to be the death of me_.

Ron was pacing back and forth through Charing Cross station, panicked. He'd decided to take the Tube this morning because he was unsure whether he could Floo into the Ministry with Fred in his pocket, and he _had_ to take Fred to work now because — well — because he'd known better all along, hadn't he? He didn't even listen to himself.

"Good gracious, Fred. Where _are_ you?" he muttered aloud as he walked along the edge of the platform, his eyes turned down towards the tracks. This pass he was focusing on the nooks and crannies along the rails, searching for his increasingly mischievous pet who had disappeared somewhere on the short train ride from his flat. As Ron made another pass along the westside tracks, he found it hard to believe it had only been a week. So much had happened.

 _And, as usual, Ronald — it's been chaos._ Ron stopped short, mid-sweep. His "inner Hermione" was peeking out again. It was not his preferred voice-over for his conscience — but it was one that he found was increasingly prevalent. It made him smile, despite himself. He could always count on Hermione to be the voice of reason. _Even if she is a bit bossy about it_.

He stopped and grabbed a seat on the end of a nearby bench, sinking back with a heavy sigh. _How did I end up here?_ It was simple, really.

George never did say how he had come across the Niffler, or why he wasn't keeping it for himself. He had insinuated that it might be a companion for Ron, despite the fact that Ron had three other roommates and a job with friends and former classmates. Ron certainly wasn't lonely, and that was _before_ one took into account his active dating life. No, in retrospect, it hadn't made much sense that _Ron_ needed a pet — that seemed to be more what _George_ needed. Still, when Ron had made just that argument, George shrugged him off.

"I have the whole business to care for now," he said with sad smile. It was all George ever seemed to focus on lately. Ron wondered if there wasn't more he could do, but between just getting started at the Ministry, and trying to figure out how to 'adult,' he was in no position to make an offer of time. So, when his brother had reached out and indicated that it would be a help to him if Ron could care for the creature — even if only temporarily — Ron jumped at the chance.

That was Sunday. By Wednesday, he'd already gotten a Howler from his flatmate.

"Weasley! Your Fred has pulled apart my favorite cashmere jumper and done his business on the kitchen counter! Twice! You'd better come handle it, mate."

Ron sank down into his chair and tried to hide his face from his co-workers. That jumper would cost him a week's worth of salary to replace, and he was sure to be the butt of office jokes for longer than that. He scuttled out of the office as quickly as he could to get home and address his pet problem, but not without first filching a tome on magical creatures from Hermione's desk.

 _If only I could read as fast as she does_.

At that moment, a train pulled into the station, startling Ron from his reverie. The platform filled with people, most of whom, like himself, were now officially late for work. The longer Ron stayed down in the Underground, the worse his situation got, but he could not work out a way to fix it. A missing Niffler was more than a nuisance; it could be a downright catastrophe. Having one, whether he was an employee of the Ministry or not, was not _exactly_ legal. It wasn't quite illegal, but one was _supposed_ to be certified to handle Nifflers considering their considerable magical abilities.

Of course, what was worse was that, in the interest of being a good brother, he was putting his whole career on the line. And now? Well, losing said formidable magical creature — essentially unleashing it — among the throng of unsuspecting Muggle commuters during the busiest time of the day? Ron could see the dreaded pink slip in his future.

He stood up and faced the crush of morning metro riders, pressing against the tide, looking for something — _anything_ — that would indicate that Fred might be close by. In his pocket, his hand clutched at the small nest of gray cashmere where Fred had last been. It was a nervous habit by this point, like searching for his keys. He kept going back to the unwound piece of jumper hoping he would somehow find Fred there. It was no good, though. His pocket was still empty.

And then, he saw what he was looking for. A woman in a long trench coat, her face stern and eyes focused on the escalator ahead as she barreled forward in the crowd. He watched as her focus was suddenly lost, and her hand rose up to clutch at her throat. "My necklace..."

Ron approached her, hoping desperately that she wouldn't freak out. He was closing in fast, but not fast enough.

"My necklace!" she shouted. "Help! HELP! I've been robbed!"

Ron was almost upon her as she quickly stepped aside of the rush and sought out a bobby, all the while shouting her outrage.

 _Great. Just what I need_.

Ron quickly redirected himself, trying to appear casual as he passed her by, but his hasty change of course caught the policeman's eye instead.

"Oi! You! Stop right there. I need to talk to you!"

Ron felt the breeze pick up in the tunnel and checked over his shoulder. An eastbound train was careening up the track at a frightening speed. Ron looked back at the approaching officer, still some distance away, and thought he had a chance. It was then that a chittering squeak grabbed his attention.

Fred — still clutching the stolen necklace in one hand — had reappeared, and was in the process of sliding back down into Ron's jacket pocket, much to his alarm.

"Oh, no you don't!" Ron thrust his hand in after the little pest and dragged it out by its scruff. Squawking and whining, Fred had the nerve to flash a proud grin. It would have been funny if it weren't so gravely serious. Ron took stock of his situation and made a decision; it would either be a disaster or bloody brilliant. He said a silent prayer that it would be the latter.

It only took a matter of moments.

The approaching train had stopped to divest its passengers. Ron snatched the necklace away from Fred, tossing it towards the approaching officer.

"Oi!" he shouted at the bobby. "You looking for this?" The policeman stumbled to catch the glinting, golden object, losing his concentration just long enough. Ron ran through the closing doors of the train, Niffler firmly in hand, and let them shut behind him. He watched as the bobby called into his shoulder com through the glass and stepped deeper into the car.

"I think I've had _just_ about enough of pets for this go 'round," he said to Fred, even though it garnered some awfully odd looks from his fellow passengers. At the first opportunity, he moved on to the next car. He switched trains at St. Pancras, Baker Street and, once again, at Whitechapel as he made his way back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. All the while, Fred slept, balled up in the remains of the sweater he'd ruined, rhythmically snoring to the clack-clack-clack of the train.

 **XXXXX**

"You're the fourth person I've manage to foist the little bugger on," George laughed as he locked the Niffler back up in a cage on his desk at the shop. "Just remember, I didn't tell you to keep it. I only suggested…"

"But, George," Ron interrupted, annoyed to find his good deed of brotherly devotion turned into the punchline of a cruel joke. "I'm your _brother!_ "

"How right you are, brother o'mine. Good of you to remind me." A smile plastered across his face, George proceeded to the front of the shop and rang the register. "Ten galleons," he said, holding out his hand.

"Wha—?" Ron stammered. "You're gonna _charge_ me for this mess? I could've lost my job! My— My flat!" His face flushed a bright crimson. "I—I have to replace that damned sweater! Do you have _any_ idea how much that'll cost me?"

"Significantly more than ten galleons," George answered, his hand still outstretched. "You can thank me later," he winked.

"For what?" Ron shouted in frustration.

"The family discount, of course." George never heard the door chime ring as Ron stormed out. He was too busy laughing.


	4. First Contact

Author's Note: Written for Round 6 of the QLFC 6 — Borrowed Inspiration

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Chaser 2 Title Inspiration: Wishful Thinking

Prompts Used:

8 (idiom) every cloud has a silver lining

10 (emotion) apathetic

13 (food) fish and chips

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2075

 **A/N:** This is AU in that I will be speculating on what life might have been like for Charlie Weasley upon arriving at the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary; I have not deviated from canon — however, I cannot cite cannon directly for this scenario.

When I read the title 'Wishful Thinking', it immediately brought to mind how people (very much like myself), have whole visions of how things are going to be (like vacations or moving to a new city); only to have those dreams butt directly up against the messy reality of life. In the end, we create something new and beautiful, but we must be willing to give up the dream in order to make the real life work. I am hoping that Charlie does the same.

Just for reference, kvass is a mild, less alcoholic beer/ lager-type drink that is somewhat unique to Eastern Europe, born out of stale brown bread, giving it it's distinctive dark colour. They serve it to children; it is considered healthy because it is fermented. While it does provide a little bit of a buzz, it would take quite a bit more of it to do so than a regular pint of your favorite tap.

This will not incorporate any elements of characterization attributed to Charlie Weasley from Hogwarts Mystery.

Finally, my title is a tribute to my own experiences with expectations and disappointment; a phrase that has become a sort of family motto: No plan survives first contact. And it never does. Obviously, I am also happy that it ended up with a little double entendre.

 **Beta Love** : Many thanks to Claude Amelia Song, crochetaway and Story, Please for their beta assistance this round. I am always grateful for your input!

 **First Contact**

Charlie picked and poked at his plate of Șnițel. He was feeling more than a bit apathetic about it.

"You not like?" Ioana asked in her broken English. Instead of a House Elf, the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary had something more akin to 'house mums' — a woman who took care of the small housing unit that Charlie lived in. She prepared meals, kept the common areas clean and organized and took care of laundry. This would be a more taxing job had the three other bedrooms been occupied, but at the moment, only Charlie was in residence at Bicaz. This gave Ioana plenty of time to fuss after him. She had worked for a week on trying to make his favorite meal — fish and chips — only to come up with something very much like the German schnitzel dish she usually made except with fish instead of veal.

"Yes. Yes, it is very good," he replied, pushing a forkful into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out with semi-chewed potatoes as he attempted to reassure her with another smile. "Fery goot."

She toddled off, satisfied, and left Charlie to his melancholy thoughts. He choked down his food, washing it back with a healthy swallow of kvass. He pulled the glass back from his lips and admired the dark-coloured beverage. Every sip of the tart, fermented drink was a bit of a surprise to him; like much of Romania. A little sour — a little sweet, and with just enough kick to make your knees wobble if you weren't careful.

 _Every cloud has a silver lining_ , he thought as he downed the last of it. At the moment, kvass was his; he just hadn't decided if it was the cloud or the lining.

He gave his fried fish and mushy potatoes one last prod before he pushed back from the table. Try as he might, he missed good English beer, fish and chips wrapped in a newspaper, a healthy splash of malted vinegar to top it off and a bit of Major Grey's on the side. He missed popping into new shops along Diagon Alley and hopping on the Muggle train just to converse with strangers. He longed for a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a misty English morning looking out over the moor behind his home.

He hadn't expected to be homesick; he hadn't expected that he'd have doubts.

Charlie gave the remnants of his plate to the shaggy mutt that shared Bicaz House, and shuffled over to the old style ice box for another glass of kvass. He had to eat something, but the fermented drink was considered half a meal in itself so Charlie thought maybe twoglasses would make up the difference.

 _At least it will help dull what I'm feeling._

Dull was becoming _the_ problem for Charlie Weasley, though. For as much enthusiasm as he had in his zeal to work with dragons, he was losing his edge. His work wasn't sloppy, per se — never that! — rather, he was generally apathetic towards the amount of paperwork that was involved. It was a dull stream of mornings with Professor Rotaru, followed by writing and reading under his mentor's supervision in the afternoon, with a healthy dose of 'practical work' scattered throughout. And what Andrei Rotaru referred to as _practical_ was a heck of a lot of inventorying. Food and fodder, trail maintenance, shelter and observatory repairs; it was far from glamorous. Charlie was yet to _see_ a dragon, much less work with one!

 _And that's the problem, isn't it? Nothing is what I thought it would be._

Charlie caught himself still sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window. The glass in front of him was empty; so was the jug from the fridge that sat next to it.

 _I'd better replace it,_ he thought as he got up. He stumbled and had to reach out quickly to brace himself against the wall. _Oi, mate — You've outdone yourself. Time to get some air._

Charlie Weasley lurched out into the fading heat of a summer day that was turning into a warm, sticky summer night. The crickets sang him a chorus of hums, counterbalancing the nearby frogs in the pond as he weaved his way along the gravel drive and towards the general store near Stănile Skete. He knew the steep climb would clear his head and he'd feel a bit better about himself if he didn't leave more work for Ioana; at least for a little bit.

At the store, the transaction was harder than it needed to be. Charlie's Romanian was halting, at best; but the store keeper knew him well enough that they made do between Charlie's undeclined nouns and a bit of pointing. It was just one more thing that ate away at him — he felt like he was failing at everything; even the simple act of purchasing groceries. He started to wonder if he should just head back to England as he stood outside the store holding his brown paper bag and looking up at a stretch of the stone mountains that gave Ceahlău National Park its name; and the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary its home. With all his uncertainties dogging him, he turned towards the steep incline at Poiana Stănile and headed up the ridge.

 _If this is it, I should at least look out on Lacul Izvorul Muntelui one last time._ Charlie found himself hoping the trek would also stop the throbbing in his head.

He reached the plateau just in time for sunset; hot pink, and fiery orange in stark contrast to the steel gray of the mountains, and the dark green of the evergreen forest. And in the haze, the hint of blue of Lacul Izvorul Muntelui. No matter how poorly he felt, Charlie could count on being awed by the beauty that surrounded him here when he took a moment to let it all in. He sat himself on a rock, and for the first time in days, Charlie felt the tension in his shoulders release. He let all the worries go — all his wishful thinking and crushed expectations vapourised in the resulting calm. There was a magic all its own in this place.

He was still daydreaming as the sky turned purple, deepening into a cool, misty dusk. Charlie slowly emerged from his own thoughts and turned his mind to making his way back home when he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head around, looking for the storm, but not a cloud was in the sky.

 _Odd. I was sure I saw lightning._

It flashed again, just over the lake. Charlie stopped and leaned forward, peering out into the growing darkness, searching. It almost seemed as if a cloud was sitting over the body of water. One, small, dark cloud — that was moving at alarming speed. And it was headed straight for him.

Charlie dove for the ground, his bottle of kvass rolling away and down the trail to break somewhere not far off. He felt the strength of the wind blow his hair into his eyes and pull at the loose edge of his t-shirt. He raised his head to look — his heart in his throat. Now? After all these months? Could it be?

 _Dragon!_ Charlie was sure he would have shouted out loud had be not been stunned silent with awe for the beast that had just flown overhead. A smile broke out across his face; his first genuine smile in months. His body was covered in gooseprickles. She was fully unfurled in flight, swooping out over the mountains before she circled back towards the ridge where Charlie was. He never even had time to be afraid.

Upon reflection, Charlie would later come to realize that Sheila was small for a dragon, as most Hebridean Blacks were. In the moment, though, as she touched down within a few feet of where he lay, she was the biggest beast he'd ever seen; and the most beautiful. He sat upright, staring at her in wonderment; her glossy black scales that caught the last of the light, the long arch of her neck as she maneuvered her head to get a better look at him. And those _eyes_! He felt as if he could look into those eyes for days and not see a tenth of their depth.

 _And they might be the very last thing you see unless you get your head into the game, mate!_ But Charlie never moved; his instinct took over. Beyond his books and his lessons, he let his gut be his guide; and so they sat, side-by-side, looking out over the lake until Charlie lost his battle to sleep, and drifted off.

When he turned back up to the sanctuary campus the next morning, Andrei Rotaru was waiting for him along with a very concerned Ioana. "It has been a long night," he huffed, his disapproval evident just by his tone of voice.

"My apologies, sir, but truly, I have a go—"

"Stop with your blathering, Mr. Weasley," Rotaru interrupted. "I know why. She is _here_! Waiting on you."

"Wha—what?" Charlie stammered

"It would seem I am going to have to accelerate your course of study. We should probably start with Imprinting," Rotaru replied without a hint of sarcasm. He walked out of the back of Bicaz House, Charlie in tow, and raised a hand out toward the yard.

"You, my boy, have a _dragon_."

And so, he did.

-XXX-

Charlie's arms were full with stacked newspaper as he moved towards the outskirts of the campus. A sudden wind blew the leading edge of the topmost paper into his face, obstructing his view and causing him to pause his progress. As he reorganized himself, he caught some writing in the margin; his own.

"Get your act together," it read in one space. And "Isn't this what you've always wanted?" scrawled perpendicular to the page's articles along a trailing edge. Charlie flipped the paper around and noted the date. He smiled.

 _Almost a year to the day. How lost I was...how far away from the happiness I have now._ When he remembered back, it was hard to find the despair he had felt — or why it had been so all consuming.

He sat down on a little hillock with his burden. He could see down a gentle slope of grass that led into the thick, dark forest that pressed all around the edges of the sanctuary. He breathed deep, taking a moment to appreciate the last of a summer that was quickly waning. _Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would end up this way._ Charlie tilted his face up towards the sun, closing his eyes ever so briefly.

He wasn't sure if he fell asleep, only that he was now being nudged, insistently, by a warm, rough snout.

"Hey there, Sheila," he smiled, his eyes still closed. He reached a hand up to stroke the dragon's muzzle and got a push in return that rolled him half way over onto his side.

"Okay, okay — I'm up." Charlie gathered up his stack of papers and raised it up for inspection. "As promised, my princess. Fresh nesting material." Sheila stuck her black nose in amongst the paper and snorted her approval. Her dark purple eyes locked on him and she huffed again. Nest-building was a time consuming task and Sheila was in a rush to get back.

"Yes, dear," Charlie laughed, falling in beside the retreating Hebridean Black as they made their way down the hill with their riches. No nest would be more comfortable, Charlie had seen to that. So had Ioana, with her bags of unused quilting remnants and yarn ends. _And_ Andrei Rotaru — much to his own surprise — who assisted in scouting a site that would get plenty of sun for warmth over the impending winter months. Sheila had changed them all, and for the better.

 _And all I had to do was just get out of my own way._ Sheila snorted in reply to Charlie's thought; it was a special part of their bond. "Yes, I had to get out of _your_ way, too." She nodded, satisfied with her own joke, and loped ahead, her scales glistening, her tail wagging, her belly heavy. Charlie could only shake his head and smile; he was completely routed.

And he didn't wish it any other way.


	5. Of Gifts Given and Returned

Author's Note: Written for Round 6 of the QLFC 6 — Month by Month: January

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: January birthdays: Severus Snape, Lily Evans, Rubeus Hagrid — this story will feature only Severus Snape and Lily Evans

Prompts Used:

1 (phrase) "If I hear anyone say 'Happy Birthday' one more time...

8 (word) estranged

10 (creature) Jarvey

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2606

 **A/N: AU.** I've never quite understood the explanation of Severus and Lily's falling out. It always seemed so incomplete, so lacking in the weight it would've needed to explain Snape's lifetime of dedication. So I'm imagining a piece of it; a piece that would have happened after their initial fight and perhaps a few subsequent (and maybe very public) rows. This is a place in their relationship where they have a chance to salvage something of their connection, but neither can manage to take the opportunity.

I've also struggled with character development, especially with beloved characters like these. It is sometimes hard to see a character as anything but what we already have read about them; yet each person, much like each character of a person, has been through a lifetime of experiences that have shaped them. While Severus Snape is a very defined set of characteristics by the time we meet him in 1991, I imagine that there were many points in his younger life when he tried to fit in and make friends, as we all do. I am trying to weave a path to Snape's 'known self' that also flirts with some of these 'normal' childhood/ young adulthood milestones along the way because I think even someone like Snape must have had a few.

Jarveys are described as somewhat larger and more vicious mongoose-type creatures with a limited vocabulary of sarcastic retorts and phrases. That, evidently, results in a ferret with a New Yorkers sensibility and the smart mouth to match. Any resemblance to the author's native speech patterns is purely coincidental.

Final note: All research points to London school children taking public transit rather than a separate bus designated for school. As I could not find anything contradictory indicated for the 1970's, I am using the same mode of transport for my characters.

 **Of Gifts Given and Returned**

 _Spring 1978_

She found him. Even after all this time, there were no secrets between them. She had the nerve to sit down beside him and gaze out onto the lake as if nothing had changed.

"I thought we might talk," Lily said, finally.

"Now?" Severus asked. He could not keep the sarcasm — or the pain — from his voice.

"If not now, then when?"

"I am not the one who waited until one day before graduation." It was a petty shot, he knew, but her presence ignited such revulsion in him now; such anger.

"At least I am making an attempt!"

"Oh! And I am _ever_ so gratef— OW! How DARE you hit me?!"

"I _should_ have done it sooner, you — you _git_!" Lily's cheeks were as red as her hair, her anger boiling up from her core; her neck was flushed, her hairline pink, her chest heaving as she gasped for air like she'd just run up the side of a mountain. Severus was as bloodless as ever, his pale skin bruised scarlet only where her hand had slammed into his face. He showed no other signs of his fury; everything was locked away deep within. They sat, looking at each other; one hot, one cold. They could not have been more different.

It was Lily who broke the silence. "I only wanted to make sure I said my piece before we parted ways."

Severus stared at her; silent. He knew she would be unable to bear the stillness; that she was likely to fill in the quiet spaces with a tumble of words. He was right.

"We may have grown estranged these last few years," she said, "and that has been a mutual choice." Severus huffed audibly, but made no other indication that he would participate, so Lily continued. "But that does _not_ mean that I have stopped being your friend _or_ that I have stopped _caring_ about you!" She leaned in and tried to grab one of his hands, but Severus pulled back, crossing his arms over his chest to keep them away from her grasp.

Lily retreated; her head bowed. She looked so defeated in that moment — so very unlike herself. "I only mean to say, that I have noticed the company you keep." Her voice was suddenly hushed and cautious. Severus was tempted to lean in to hear her better, but he was afraid to show his vulnerability. He was afraid that he still cared.

"...And I worry for you is all." She finished her thought, her final words hardly a whisper.

"I have not been enamoured of the company _you_ keep as of late, either," he said, his voice quiet and calm in response. "But you don't see me storming into your solitude yelling about it."

"Severus, I don't _see_ you at all."

"Which I thought was your preference."

"I think it is _your_ preference."

"Perhaps it is."

"He's not a terrible bloke, you know?" Lily made the weakest attempt at a smile he'd ever seen.

"Not terrible," he mocked, "just a bully and a reprobate."

"That's not fair!'

"Hanging someone upside down and torturing them isn't fair, Lily!"

Severus turned away, his gaze directed back out at the lake even though he could not see it in his state. There were some things they were never going to iron out. Not now. Too much had happened.

Lily broke the silence. Again. He was convinced she had never sat still and quiet in her whole life. "At the very least, we should talk about Jeeves."

"What's to talk about?"

"Where will he go? You don't expect to take him home, do you?"

"As I am the only one caring for him…" Severus let the unspoken accusation linger.

"That isn't so!"

 _Did she have to argue_ everything _?_

"I've made sure to spend time with him, too."

 _The lady doth protest too much, methinks._ "Have you administered his ear drops?" He asked.

"What?"

"His ear drops. He has an ear infection. Didn't you know?" He knew he shouldn't play this game with her — this tit-for-tat — but he was feeling bruised and petty.

"I—I—"

"Didn't know? I find it hard to believe since it's been an ongoing problem since the day he got caught up in the bramble beside the Boat House chasing that damned gnome."

"What gnome?"

Severus only smirked. He never even turned to look at her. "I have it under control. No need to spend any of your time away from your precious Potter." She raised her hand to slap him again, but he was ready for her. No need for spells; it only required a bit of speed to turn quickly and grab her wrist. She practically fell into his lap, her eyes full of tears and anger.

"How did it come to this, Sev?" she whispered before she snatched her arm away and stormed off.

 _How, indeed?_

 _Winter 1971_

"If I hear anyone say 'Happy Birthday' one more time, I'm gonna scream!" she huffed, plopping down in the seat next to Severus. Compared to the frosty cold afternoon outside, the interior of the brightly lit M70 bus was warm and humid; a result of it's over-crowded status. He instinctively leaned in a bit closer to Lily Evans, as much a product of his physical coldness as it was just being drawn in by her. She had an infectious quality to her; boisterous, happy, full-of-life. As little as young Severus Snape knew of joy or being carefree, he still found himself gravitating towards it when it came to _her_. She was something special.

"Don't you just despise it, Sev?" she asked, shaking him loose from his own thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"Birthday wishes? You know. 'Happy birthday' being sung in class and such," she insisted, sidling up closer to him as she took off her gloves and rubbed her hands together. Severus was never sure if she noticed his general condition; his oversized coat, his threadbear pants, his general dishevelment. It was only at times like these, when she seemed to be leaning into to him as if _she_ were cold that he wondered if she was doing it for his benefit. He never worked up the courage to ask.

"I— I guess I am not sur—"

"Severus, stop," she said, "I _know_ your birthday was just a few weeks ago." She smirked at him, as if they were sharing a secret no one else knew. She had that way; of making difficult things seem easy. He could only sigh in return and change the subject.

"Did you abandon Petunia to the comfort of a stranger?"

"Wouldn't you?" Lily giggled. "I think she's standing, actually. Bus was really full; I was surprised you got a seat." Severus just looked at her without responding. He needed a moment to enjoy the simplicity of it all.

 _Why did she have to mention my birthday?_

As anticipated, Severus' owl from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had arrived not three weeks hence. It was as much a source of anxiety as it had been pride around Spinner's End. Severus was glad to know he would be leaving the chaos of his home life behind, but whenever his thoughts turned to Lily, his meager joy soured. He wasn't one for making friends; Lily was all he had. And despite what he'd told her about her magic, he quietly harbored his doubts. What if she _didn't_ get a letter from Hogwarts? How would he get on without her?

 _It's months away,_ he thought. _Maybe if she doesn't get invited, we'll be able to stay in contact by post._ The more he tried to avoid it, the more it consumed him so that by the time Lily's own birthday had rolled around, he was sullen and withdrawn. He just didn't know how he was going to tell her.

And then, _she_ told _him._

"Severus!" Lily called down the sidewalk after him the next morning. She ran towards him (and away from an extra dour-looking Petunia) breathless with excitement.

"Severus! You will _never_ guess what I got for my birthday!" she squealed. He rolled his eyes, hoping she wasn't about to brag. He hadn't known her to be the boasting sort.

"Oh my goodness," she squawked again. "It's — it's just — just —"

"Just what, Lily? Spit it out already!"

"I can't!" she practically screamed, shoving the paper at him. "You read it!"

Severus unrolled the parchment, and smiled.

 _Winter 1974_

"What is _this_ now?" Severus had no choice but to laugh as he stumbled about blind, Lily behind him with her hands over his eyes. Clumsy was the only apt word to describe it.

"Just a few more steps," she giggled. "Okay. Here we are." She stepped away and Severus rubbed his eyes. They were staring at a blank wall in an empty corridor. Severus turned with a worried look on his face.

"Um, listen, Lily...if — I — I'm not —no, wait. It's not — no. No, that's not it." Severus' palms were sweaty and his mouth had gone dry. "Listen. What I'm trying to say is — if this is about snogging —"

" _Merlin_ no, silly!" Lily laughed and flicked her wrist, revealing a door in the wall where there hadn't been one before.

"How in the world…"

"I _might_ have been eavesdropping a bit in the Gryffindor common room the other night, and…" She raised her eyebrows and they both went in.

"The Room of Requirement," he whispered. "It's not just a myth."

"No, it's not," she replied, a satisfied look on her face. Severus took a few minutes to look around before the question even occurred to him.

"But why?"

"Because I needed to hide your birthday gift." She went over towards a stack of partially collapsed boxes and retrieved one that was in slightly better shape. She carried it back over with some effort and set it down between them. Severus crouched down with her and Lily opened the cover.

"What is that?"

"A Jarvey," she answered.

"As in the magical creature we just learned about in class? The one that eats gnomes and voles and is generally like a more vicious mongoose? _That_ one?"

"Yes!" she cried. "Isn't he adorable?"

"Simply _darling_." Severus' voice was flat, but his heart was in his throat. "I'm not sure we should _have_ it," he said, as gently as he could. He didn't want to seem ungrateful. He was overjoyed at her gesture. _But a Jarvey?_

"I thought we could call him Jeeves," she said, her hand now stroking the small, round curl of fur in the bottom of the box. "Jeeves the Jarvey."

"It's very — alliterative." It was the nicest thing he could say.

"You hate it," she replied as she looked up at him, a smile still on her face. "But you _are_ thinking about a name...which means _maybe_ you are thinking about keeping it?"

She was going to be the death of him, and it would be the sweetest death he could imagine. He reached in to stroke the Jarvey's fur and found it softer than anything he'd ever touched before. Except, perhaps, for Lily's skin. He grabbed her hand in his own and pulled her across the box to him.

"So, snogging is back in play?" she asked when they parted. Severus could only hide behind his curtain of dark hair.

"I guess it is," he admitted.

"Beat it! I'm busy sleepin' here!" Severus' eyes widened as he peeked back down into the box from whence came the surprising outburst.

"They talk?" he asked looking up at his co-conspirator.

"I believe they do; some of them anyway," Lily replied, a grimace of regret on her face.

" _Wonderful_. And _where_ exactly did you say you picked up this little treasure? He does not sound like he's from the Magical Menagerie."

" _That_ would be telling," she smiled, and she leaned in to kiss him again.

"Get a room yeh two!" came the voice from the box.

 _Summer 1976_

"I just don't understand _how_ you can support this? _You_?! Of all people? It's not like you're _'pure-blooded'_ or whatever!"

Lily was yelling again. It was the only interaction they seemed to have of late. _Aside from not speaking at all._ Severus sighed.

"I think you misunderstand what I mea—"

"What about witches like me? I understand that _those_ people think that I'm not good enough to practice magic!"

"It's much more nuanced than that, Lily. And besides, that is not what _I_ think. Obviously."

"No, Sev. It is most definitely _not_ obvious. You are attending their meetings!"

"Yes, I am. In support of the idea that _we_ , _you_ and _I_ — and people like us — should not be subservient to regular, ordinary Muggles. We are better than they are." Severus took a deep breath; he could feel himself getting caught up in her overwrought emotions. He needed to remain calm. "All that stuff about 'blood lines' and such — it's just talk. An homage to Salazar Slytherin by a handful of extremists. Nothing more."

Lily was staring into her butterbeer as she whirled the whipped cream with her straw. "No, we're not."

"We're not what?" he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand. Lily moved it away and looked up at him.

"We're _not_ better than Muggles," she said, her trademark defiance creeping back into her face. "We're not. We're just different."

Severus felt the muscles in this face twitch with tension. "On this, we disagree."

"Yes," she said, hanging her head. "Yes, we do."

 _Winter 1977_

He almost plowed into her turning a corner into the mostly abandoned hallway.

"Hey there, watch out!" He reached out to block the on-coming blur of red hair and black robes. Lily blinked up at him, confused. She had missed much during their estrangement; a growth spurt was one. Lily had to adjust her eyes upward to look into Severus' face.

"Sorry," she mumbled. Hurriedly, she dislodged herself from his grasp and continued on down the hall.

"Is that it, then?" he called after her. She turned.

"Is that what?"

He took two steps towards her, thankful that she had not just blown off in a huff. "Is that all there is now? An accidental run-in with nothing else to say?"

"I think you've _said_ quite enough, don't you Severus?"

 _Would she never forgive him?_

"If it matters, I'll say it again. I'm _sorry_. I'll say it a million times. I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"You could be sorry from now until the end of time. I'm not sure it will ever be enough."

 _Neither am I,_ he thought as he watched her walk off into the growing shadows of the castle corridor.

 _Winter 1982_

"You back?" a voice came from the tall grasses alongside the lake. It was not wholly unexpected.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Severus answered.

"And what 'bout your little red _bird_?" Jeeves asked in his inimitable way. Severus' wand flicked out instinctively with malice, and Jeeves jumped. "Whoa, ya git!"

"Don't. You. _EVER!_ "

"Not _my_ fault she left." He ducked back down into the reeds and disappeared.

Severus watched the blades move and twitch as Jeeves made his way along the lake edge and eventually dove in. His presence became a subtle ripple in the water that moved out and faded to nothing faster than Severus would have thought possible.

" _You can't give him back. He was a gift."_ It might've been one of the last things she'd ever said to him.

 _And what of my heart?_

As it turned out, that could never be returned either.


	6. Angel Baby

Author's Note: Written for Round 7 of the QLFC 6 — Movies That Killed Their Franchise

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle (2003)

Prompts Used:

2 (location) Knockturn Alley

7 (dialogue) "Well, that did not go according to plan."

14 (word) deplorable

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2989

 **A/N:** Muggle!AU Mobster!AU

The Charlie's Angels movie franchise was short-lived — unlike it's TV serial predecessor. In particular, Full Throttle tackles the problem of when a former co-worker/ friend/ sister becomes a rival or even an enemy. Being a threesome, it was hard to pass up the opportunity to work with the Black sisters again. Considering that Sirius Black was a notorious "traitor" of his family's views on Muggles, it seemed a natural fit. And since we were keeping it about betrayal of family, I was inspired to make it all that much seedier with the gangster crossover.

A quick note on gravy: Gravy (not sauce or pasta sauce or marinara or Bolognese) is the common term for a tomato-based sauce — that may or may not have meat in it —that is usually cooked over the course of many hours or days according to _some_ groups of Italians and Italian immigrants. There is much debate about the use of the term, but it is the term I have chosen to use here by way of asserting the differing linguistics between regular people and mafia-related characters.

A quick note on pagers: evidently pagers were a thing as early as the 1920's, but were still relatively limited until the 70's when tone and voice paging became more widely available. Although mostly for medical personnel, for the purposes of this story, Scotland Yard will be at the forefront of the new technology. For more information, blog/throwback-thursday-history-pagers

A quick note on timing: Since this is a Muggle!AU the more things change, the more they remain the same. I see this as being roughly the Summer of 1971; this would preserve the cannon ages of all the Black sisters as well as the timeline within which Andromeda might have met Ted Tonks.

 **Angel Baby**

"I _told_ you!" she hissed. "Dirty rat!" Bellatrix Black convulsed in alcove she shared with her sisters just beside the entrance to Msaw Aetare — it was something between a dance of joy and a self-stifled impulse to leap out at their prey. Narcissa place a hand on her arm, just in case.

"As you said, Bella," she tried to reassure her older sister, "Sirius has never been one to show much in the way of family loyalty, but I'm not sure his departure from the tattoo shop says much about what he _is_ doing, except, perhaps, getting some ink."

"Have you seen any ink on him?" Bellatrix retorted.

"Oh, enough with your conspiracies, Bella. We don't see Sirius at _all_ because of father. You don't know any more than I do about his activities." Narcissa spoke with confidence despite being the youngest. At the moment, she was hoping it was convincing enough to cover her own doubts. "Come on," she tugged at Bellatrix's sleeve and nodded to Andromeda. "Didn't you say you had a some 'protection money' to pick up from Potage's?" She flashed Andromeda a private, worried glance as she tried to turn their sister back to her initial task. Narcissa was more than a little concerned about what Bellatrix might to if she had any clue that her sisters were active working to keep her in check.

Thankfully —for tonight, at least — she only had eyes for Sirius Black. "I'm going to _kill_ him," she whispered, as she took one last glance. "See if I don't."

* * *

"Sirius," she whispered, afraid to be heard. Andromeda Black kept in the shadows of the tangled, twisted buildings on the east end of Knockturn Alley. She wore a threadbare, overly-large trench, the belt wrapped twice around her tiny waist as the hemline dusted the ground. She had wrapped a thin rayon scarf around her head, keeping her hair well hidden and partially obscuring her face. She was taking no chances of being recognized. Her father had eyes everywhere.

The slip of a shadow moving away from Markus Scarr's doorway stopped, but did not turn towards where he heard her voice. He had already given the game away. Andromeda watched as Sirius tucked his hands into his pockets and prepared to talk himself out of yet another tight situation. "Oi! Who's that?" he shouted out into the alley, specifically directing his body away from where Andromeda was hiding. She was sure he knew where she was. "That you, Lupin? A long way from the soda shop, aren't you, you nancy boy…" He casually walked by, head forward, and allowed Andromeda to peel herself away from the wall and drop in behind him.

"I knew it," she said to his back. "How could you be so _foolish?"_

"I'm not the only one who's being foolish at the moment." She could almost hear his smile. So cavalier.

"I'm here to _warn_ you!" She sped up, moving almost parallel to him, but Sirius prevented that by making a quick right turn into a short, narrow service corridor between the buildings. No sooner had they entered the deeper shadow then he turned on her and grabbed her by the shoulders, whipping her around so she was hidden by his own body. "Bella knows!" she squeaked out. She was terrified, but at the moment, she wasn't sure if she was more afraid of Sirius or her sister.

"Did you expect I hadn't planned on that?" he hissed. "How does you being here _help_ me?"

"I — I — I ju—"

"Now what are we going to do?" he shook her again. "Think about it, Dromeda?! Do you think _no one_ knows where _you_ are right now?"

Andromeda Black has always been fair, she took after her mother; but pale would have been an understatement had there been light to see. She could feel the blood drain from her face with the realization. Her eyes were as large as saucers as they searched Sirius' face for a glimmer of hope that it was not as bad as she thought. She found no solace.

"There are no other choices for you now," he said, pulling Andromeda closer to him into a hug. "I'm sorry. I know you thought you were helping."

"What am I going to _do?_ " she whispered into his chest. Her eyes were welling with tears, unbidden. Sirius hugged her tight, his cheek resting atop her own head. She stood there, wondering how she had ended up here — she had never been close with Sirius. She had been encouraged to stay away from him; Sirius wasn't what you would call a 'good soldier.' And yet here he was, offering her protection when he should have been more worried about himself. She couldn't reconcile it.

Sirius broke their embrace, his trademark crooked smile widening across his face. "Well, _that_ did not go according to plan, huh?" He asked, gently wiping the tears off of Andromeda's cheeks. "Let's get out of here. We're gonna need some help." He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and then headed back out into the lane. "Fortunately, I know someone." He smiled, and turned them towards the White Wyvern pub.

* * *

"Where _is_ she?!" Bellatrix threw her fork back into her plate of spaghetti and meatballs, splattering the white linen tablecloth, and her youngest sister, with gravy.

"Would you calm down!" Narcissa replied, pushing back from the table and dabbing at the red splatter all over her new pale pink leisure suit. "Thank _God_ this is polyester," she mumbled, noting all the while how the red seemed to slowly bleed out from each and every spot like a small wound.

"Stop worrying about your clothes and _listen_ to me, Cissy!" Bella growled angrily as she grabbed her sister's wrist pulling her closer. Narcissa was relieved that, at least for today, her older sister was going to choose to keep her voice down in public — even if they were in the safe space that was Mulpepper's. The "apothecary" made its reputation on poisonously heavy-handed libations, a healthy helping of lasagne and a haven for the seediest of the mafia underbelly. The Black Sisters had practically grown up here.

"I don't know _who_ you think you're talking to." Narcissa spat back, wrenching her arm back. "Unlike 'Dromeda, _I'm_ not yours to push around."

Bellatrix's eyes flashed wide in that way she had; it scared Narcissa. It was the sort of look that shook you to your core. Narcissa had always known that Bella was the most violent of them all; the most capable of what it took to be 'made'. Bella had only ever wanted to be part of the family business; the money, the crime, the violence. _Especially_ the violence. It was not a desire they shared. Sure, Narcissa enjoyed the wealth her family had accrued; the deference that was shown to her because of who her father was...but she had never had aspirations of getting her hands dirty. Not like Bella had.

Sitting here alone with her eldest sister made all too plain the missing element of their trio: Andromeda. She was the fulcrum — the mediator and the diplomat. She was the one who had pressed her youngest sister into accompanying Bellatrix on her outings; to 'keep an eye on her'. It was Andromeda who had been the most worried about their sister's increasingly erratic behavior only a few weeks prior.

* * *

" _She is interested in more than just laundering a little drug money through Cobb and Webb's," Andromeda had insisted. "The other day, I found her sporting a butterfly knife in her belt and razor blades hidden in her hair!"_

 _Narcissa remembered her doubts. "Could she have been threatened? Does she think she needs — I don't know — protection?" Narcissa sitting at her vanity when they'd had that discussion — staring at her new, platinum blond 'do in the mirror, only half listening to her sister. "You know we've had some scuffles again with the Irish out near Msaw Aetare. Those Finnegan boys are especially vicious, from what I hear." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and pouted at the mirror._

" _Would it be so bad if we just went along?" Andromeda asked. "You know, 'Cissy — just to keep Bella safe?" Narcissa looked at her sister directly; she knew what she hadn't said. It was as much to keep everyone else safe as it was for Bella._

" _No, not at all," Narcissa replied, turning back to her reflection. "It'll be fun. Like we're in a Nancy Drew mystery or something." She flipped her hair back again. Andromeda smiled and threw a musty overcoat at her._

" _Well, come on then," she grinned. "No time like right now!"_

'Bella has a point. Andromeda would not have missed this dinner voluntarally. Where was she?' Narcissa thought.

"Are you even listening to me?" Bella screeched between clenched teeth in Narcissa's direction.

Narcissa blinked. She hadn't been.

"Sorry, no — I was thinking," Narcissa replied, hurriedly.

"Well, the time for thinking is over!" Bellatrix pushed herself back from her half-eaten meal and made for the door. Narcissa had little choice but to follow, hoping against hope that somewhere along the way, she might figure out what had happened to Andromeda.

'Before Bella does.'

* * *

"'Dromeda, this is Ted," Sirius said by way of introduction as Andromeda Black scarfed down the last of her stew where she sat hunched over the bar at the Wyvern. "I gave him a page while you were eating. He might be able to help us."

The tall, lanky young man reached over to shake her hand — a courtesy Andromeda wasn't used to. In her family, and _especially_ in the family business, women were seen and not heard. That is, unless they were talking amongst themselves in the kitchen. She found herself awkwardly wiping her hand down her thigh before she took it. Her hand was clammy and warm; and this undeniably attractive man who was staring at her intensely was not helping.

"I'm an agent with Scotland Yard," Ted said. He was polite, but assertive. It was clear now that he was speaking that he was most assuredly an officer of the law. "I work in the criminal enterprise division, and I have been working closely over the past few months with your cousin here, on infiltrating the Black family." He paused for a moment, perhaps for her benefit, but Andromeda wasn't sure. " _Your_ family," he finally added. Ted looked back over his shoulder at Sirius and nodded.

Sirius moved a bit closer and picked up the thread. "C'mon 'Dromeda. You could be a _big_ help."

Andromeda just stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. "But Sirius," she finally managed, "I don't understand. They're my _family_."

"They are. But they are also deplorable people."

"They are _not_ …" She couldn't even finish the sentence in good conscience. "They're not _always_ so awful," she finally managed.

Sirius persisted. "They do awful, horrible things though — and they do them to make money, no matter who gets hurt in the process." Andromeda found herself looking away from her cousin, her fingers all twisted up in a nervous knot on her lap.

'What do I _do_? What _can_ I do? They are my family..I _love_ them!' She felt Sirius wedge himself in closer to her, his arm reaching up and over her shoulder.

"I know," he whispered. "I know how hard it is." He squeezed her closer. "I love my family, too. But—"

Andromeda pushed hard into his chest. "No!" she slid off her barstool. "No, I won't! I can't!"

" _Please_ , 'Dromeda. Think about it. Who is going to protect you from them now?"

"Protect _me_?" She asked, "I was protecting _you_!"

Sirius smiled in that crooked way of his. "Are you?" he asked as he leaned back across the bar towards a small window and pulled back the curtain. "Are you really?" He nodded his head at Andromeda and she peeked outside. There, huddled in the darkness just outside the pub were her sisters — lying in wait. Andromeda turned back to Sirius, her mouth open, but nothing came out.

Ted reached up behind Sirius to redraw the curtain. "The Yard can provide you with protection." Andromeda blinked at him and remained silent. It was all happening so fast.

Sirius seized her arms and gave her a good shake. "The minute you walk out that door, you are discovered — whether you've done anything or not! You can't just waltz back into the viper's nest!"

"All I wanted to do was warn you—" she squeaked, meekly. How had it all gone wrong?

"I _know_ ," he replied. "You have a good heart. I'm sorry it has gotten you into to all this trouble..."

"Well, then," Ted piped up, breaking the tension with his business-like demeanor, "I have an idea, but it'll take a bit of acting on your part, Andromeda. Are you game?" Sgt. Ted Tonks was deceiving. As an undercover agent, he looked like any other oversexed hippie: long brown hair hanging in his eyes, his bell bottoms just a bit too tight, with no shirt and a fringe suede vest. But when he opened his mouth, he gave the game away — he was a cop, through and through — even someone as innocent as Andromeda could see that. He flashed her a smile that was worthy of her cad of a cousin. She couldn't stop blushing.

"I—I guess?"

Ted traded places with Sirius, moving in to Andromeda's personal space. "I'll take it from here," he reassured him. "The kitchen door is guarded by one of my guys. Ask for 'Liam' and he'll get you to the safe house." The two men shook hands and Sirius disappeared behind the bar.

"Now," Ted said, as he pressed in even closer, "let's have a drink and loosen things up a bit."

* * *

The door to the White Wyvern opened, spilling light out into the darkened alley along with two occupants. Narcissa almost pissed herself when she heard their laughter.

"'Dromeda?"

"Shhhhhh…." Bellatrix muttered. "I _told_ you she was up to something!" Narcissa could not believe her eyes, but she didn't have to. She was certain that was her sister's voice. She sat back with Bellatrix and watched as the two forms stopped in the street. She listened to the sound of her sister's nervous giggles and watched to see their shadows meet, close and tight. Andromeda was smiling and breathless. She practically floated down the narrow alleyway toward them.

"And just _WHAT_ do you think _you're_ doing?" Bellatrix jumped out of the gloom, grabbing Andromeda.

" _Bella—_ " but there wasn't time for more, as her older sister pressed her back into a wall and produced the knife she was ever so fond of. She snapped the butterfly blade out in an instant, shoving the razor sharp tip up under Andromeda's chin.

"I'd ask what you were doing in there," Bellatrix started, "but I'm pretty sure all I'm going to get is a mouthful of lies." She pressed the blade, ever so slightly, into Andromeda's flesh. Narcissa watched as a large drop of blood welled up at the knifepoint, all while Andromeda tried not to move.

"' _Let's not make hasty judgements about Sirius,_ ' she said — ' _Let's give him the benefit of the doubt,_ ' she said." Bellatrix's anger grew as she spat Andromeda's own words back in her face; the knife clenched in her hand biting deeper into flesh. Narcissa saw the wild look in her sister's eyes and flinched. "Maybe I should cut that lying tongue out!"

"Bella, _please_! Stop!" Narcissa wasn't one for putting herself in danger, but she would not stand by and watch _this_. She pushed Bellatrix's hand away from Andromeda (she heard her squeal in pain as the blade sliced through her skin, but it beat the alternative) and placed herself in front on her injured sister so that by the time Bellatrix had gathered herself back together, she had to confront them both.

Bellatrix laughed, maniacally. "Oh! Lookey at what we have here? You true colors are showing, Cissy. "

"Don't you think this has gone far enough?"

"Do you think that's what Daddy would do?" Bellatrix sniped back, inching in towards Narcissa, her blade still extended. "Do you think that loyalty doesn't extend to _family_? Of _all_ things?" Narcissa felt herself tense. She didn't know. She'd gone out of her way to shield herself in clothes and jewelry and manicures so as to not _have_ to confront the dirty work her father and his henchmen did.

Bellatrix smiled. "Move, Cissy. Time to teach 'Dromeda what happens to snitches…"

Narcissa wasn't exactly sure what precisely happened next. By the time she pulled up a seat in the Wyvern and ordered her Harvey Wallbanger, she had some real blood next to those gravy stains. Some, she assumed, was her own. But as she let the alcohol and the soothing groove of Gloria Gaynor take the edge off, she could only think of Andromeda — and how she'd probably never see her again.

"Bartender? I'll take another. And make it a double."

* * *

Andromeda Black hid from the neon glare coming off of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream shop, waiting on the payphone that stood nearby. She ventured out only to pick up the ringing receiver, afraid that if she spent too much time in the ambient light, someone might stop to help her. Or worse yet, recognize her.

Timidly, she answered the call.

"Andromeda? Andromeda this is Ted. You paged me?"

She swallowed hard. "That offer still on the table?"

"You know it is," Ted answered. He listened in vain for an answer, only to hear her muffled sobs.

"Hold on, Andromeda," he said. "I'll be there soon." And Ted Tonks ran out into the night to meet his destiny.


	7. Beautiful boy

Author's Note: Written for Round 8 of the QLFC 6 — Korean Wave

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: K-Pop Song: _Rumour_ by KARD. Theme - falling prey to rumours (either the people involved in the rumour or the listeners).

Prompts Used:

3 (dialogue) "And then I wondered… why _do_ they need fixing? Everyone and everything is broken in some way anyway."

6 (word) belittle

14 (character) Louis Weasley

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2049

 **A/N:**

Timelines are vague on HP Wiki for some of the Next Gen children, so I exploited a few of the gaps in specificity to create a scenario in which Louis Weasley and Rose Granger-Weasley are the same age and in the same class at Hogwarts.

Thanks to my mom for introducing me to the Beatles, who gave me a love for John Lennon who, unintentionally, lent me his lovely song _Beautiful Boy_ for my title. It felt so right in so many ways for the uniqueness that is Louis Weasley.

 **Beta Love:** Litfreak89 and Story, Please — I can't do it without ya!

 **Beautiful boy**

"You know, if it were true, you'd probably know by now." Louis Weasley didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He did his best not to let her know she had startled him. Again.

"How can you be so sure, Rose?" He stood still his face still tilted upwards as he stared into the night sky. The moon was hidden behind a curtain of clouds, but he feared seeing it all the same. It was most certainly full.

"I can be sure because I am not afraid of you, for starters." Rose Granger-Weasley had her own set of rules, her own type of logic. She wasn't interested in what others thought — she developed her own theories despite all proof to the contrary. She was a bold mix: impulsively courageous, like her father, at times — wickedly intelligent like her mother at others. It was a dangerous combination. Louis was thinking about just how dangerous it truly was as she slipped her arms around his waist there in the dark.

"Isn't this _exactly_ proof of what I am?" he whispered, afraid to move too much. He wanted so much to gather her up in his arms and kiss her. Her very nearness set his skin on fire. He grabbed her hands and pulled them away, stepping forward out of her grasp.

"What's that," she taunted, playfully, "an _animal_?" He turned to stare at her, his eyes full of hurt and confusion. Rose could immediately see her mistake in his eyes as the moon moved out of the shadows and cast its light down on them. She rushed in to soothe him, her hands instinctively rising to cup his face.

"A werewolf," he whispered, barely able to keep his composure. He was no longer certain if it was the moon that possessed him, or her. He watched as her pupils blew wide.

* * *

"Well, you _are_ an eighth Veela," she said, rather matter-of-factly. "It's not really a wonder that people are fascinated with you. Especially girls." She grinned at him around a mouthful pudding. It was early in their first year, and the cousins had bonded almost immediately upon being the first (and second) Weasleys sorted into Ravenclaw House in recent memory. They took most meals together, walked to class and complained about teachers, and generally took to spending a good deal of their free time in each other's company. They had a rapport that, despite making other friends along the way, was comforting in ways that they could not find elsewhere. When Louis first became aware of the rumour about him, it was only natural that he brought it straight to Rose.

"It's not the _Veela_ part of my heritage they talk about," he waggled his eyebrows at her in an attempt to elicit a snort — or better yet, pudding through the nose. Rose only covered her mouth and ducked her head down, shaking off the giggle fit that threatened to erupt. It was her last set of clean robes.

"You're not a werewolf," she picked up the conversation after she swallowed. "I've been through the library thoroughly. There's never been a recorded instance of a child inheriting Lycanthropy from a parent who _wasn't_ actually a werewolf themselves." Louis scrunched up his face in doubt. Adolescence was tough on everyone, but Louis felt his was, somehow, _different_. And certainly, Rose couldn't help but notice. His hair was almost impossible to keep up with, to the point where he now wore it long because he could not seem to get it cut frequently enough and any number of hair-combing charms had failed miserably. Rose had also gone to great pains to help her cousin with his nails, which grew at an alarming rate. They spent at least two evenings a week gossiping near the fire and trimming his nails.

"I know you are right, but…"

"But, nothing. Do you think I love waking up with a chin full of spots before every exam?" Louis could only shake his head and smile. He knew that Rose was only trying to help, and in his mind, he knew she was right. But it didn't explain the strange looks, the silences that followed when he entered a room. His dad had regaled him with stories of odd happenings and secret rooms at Hogwarts, but never werewolves. It wasn't a common occurrence. It seemed, at least to Louis, that it wasn't something that happened at all. Which is why the rumours about him cut him all that much deeper.

He'd heard it whispered since before the winter break of his first year. _The curse of the curse-breaker's son_. He remembered that he'd even had to ask at home.

* * *

"But why, Dad?" he whined, on the verge of tears. " _Why_ do they need to poke and pick at me?"

Bill Weasley could only shake his head; it was part disgust, part shared misery. He hadn't always been so well-liked, either. It was the part of the stories he'd left out when he shared his memories with his son. He'd hoped things would be different for his beautiful boy. Now, he'd have to find a way to make it okay that it wasn't. "Some people cannot help themselves," Bill started hesitantly. "Some people feel so badly about who _they_ are that they need to belittle others." He reached out to wrap Louis up in an embrace. There was no lack of affection in a Weasley home, no matter which one it was. "Do you understand?"

Louis sniffled into his father's sweater, a threadbare maroon thing that looked as if it had seen many a Christmas holiday. "I — I th— think so," he sighed, trying to regain his composure.

"They are jealous, Louis," Bill said with fervour. He grabbed the boy's arms, pushing him back so he could kneel down in front of him and look in his eyes. Bill paused to swallow back his own tears. It upset him so to see the strain on his son's face. " _You_ are everything _they_ can never be!" he squeezed Louis arms tightly. "You are handsome and talented and smart!"

The boy only cried more.

"But I only want to be liked, Dad," he sobbed. "I just want to be _normal_."

Bill could only gather him up in his arms again and let him cry. " _That_ I cannot give you," he sighed, more honest than he intended to be. "You are different. You are special." He hugged his son all the tighter. "It will be okay, Louis. I promise, it will."

And it was Bill, too, who set his son off on his fateful path.

"Don't you have anyone you can confide in?" he asked Louis on the bright and sunny Boxing Day while they awaited breakfast. "Someone you feel comfortable with?"

"Well, sure, Dad," Louis said. "I hang out with Rose all the time."

" _Our_ Rose? Really?" Bill feigned his surprise long enough to catch his lovely wife's eye and give her a wink. After all, it had been her idea to encourage their youngest to bond with his cousin.

"Yes, dad," Louis mumbled, the pink climbing up his neck and to his cheeks as his older sisters giggled at him. "You _know_ we were both sorted into Ravenclaw — sort of makes us oddballs as it is. At least for Weasleys."

"Yes, well," Bill tried hard to hide his smirk, "it is good that you have each other."

* * *

Louis could only wonder what his parents would think now as he looked over at the body of his cousin lying next to him, the moonlight cascading over her body.

* * *

He probably didn't notice it right away. He was terrible with things like that; but Louis did notice eventually, and that mattered.

It was a regular day, like any other in the midst of their fifth year. If you had asked him about it again later, Louis could not have said if anything particular had stood out. Yet somehow, over the course of a long dinner, he found himself staring.

"Okay," he said, closing his Potions book. "O.W.L.s can wait. Something is going on with you."

"What?" Rose looked up at him from over the rim of her eyeglasses, confused.

"Something is different," he said again. "Spill it. Is it that Malfoy brat?"

"Jealous?" she teased, setting down her book.

"No!" he answered too quickly. He looked back down at his plate and pushed some chips around trying to distract.

"It's not Malfoy. Or any other boy," she smiled. "It's just me." Louis looked up at her face and squinted. Something _was_ different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Rose pulled her glasses off and leaned in. "See?"

"Um...no?"

"Freckles," she said. "A lot of them."

"Yeah? But you've always had freckles."

"True," Rose admitted, "but I'm not covering them up today." She leaned in a bit closer so he could see, but now that she had said it, it was _so_ obvious. When had she started covering them? And why?

"I don't get it."

" _You_ wouldn't," she sniggered.

"What do you mean by _that_?" he shot back, instantly defensive. He was getting worse with that.

"Only that, as striking as you are, when would you _ever_ need to consider a beauty charm?" she raised a defiant eyebrow at him. How did he always manage to make it about himself? He felt awful.

"You don't need a beauty charm, Rose."

"And on that, we agree," she nodded. "At least we do now. But I didn't always feel that way." Louis watched her face intently; he saw her hurt very plainly. He knew that feeling too well to miss it. "I thought if I fixed my hair, I'd be better liked, so I smoothed it." Her hand went, unbidden, to her long, fat braid. "And then I thought maybe my skin was too blotchy, so I was washing it a ton, and charming it every morning…"

Her eyes sunk to her lap as her voice faded. Louis could tell she was struggling, but he kept quiet. He wanted to be there for her; the way she had for him. All he really needed to do was shut up and listen.

"Until I woke up one day and I didn't have a freckle left — I didn't recognize myself." She looked up at him and screwed her face up into a crooked smile. "And then I wondered… why _do_ they need fixing? Everyone and everything is broken in some way anyway. It's the way we were meant to be." She reached out across the table and grabbed Louis' hand and squeezed.

"Broken _is_ beautiful," he whispered.

"I hope you see that in yourself, too."

* * *

"Did you hear it?" a small boy asked his companion as they rushed down the stairs.

"Hear what?" his friend asked through a lazy yawn.

"All that noise from the Shrieking Shack?" the first boy said before grabbing his friends robes to bring them in close. "Sounded like…" he paused to look around and caught sight of Louis, all long legs and blue eyes, his golden hair flowing out behind him like a Greek god. "A — a — were—wolf—" The young Gryffindor stammered, his mouth falling open. He grabbed his friend's collar even tighter and veered away from Louis's approach. "A werewolf," he gulped.

"We've been discovered," Rose whispered in his ear, startling him. It only made her giggle harder. "No self-respecting werewolf would _ever_ allow me to sneak up on you as often as I do!"

"I'm starting to think you are part Kneazle," he griped half-heartedly as he grabbed her hand. She was just too lovely to be annoyed with this morning. They stopped, for just half a moment — the sea of bodies parting around them as they blocked the progress of the morning rush. All he could see was her.

Rose raised their intertwined fingers up. "Is _this_ a thing now?" She bit her lip in that crooked way she had that made her look simultaneously adorable and devilish. It made Louis blush.

"Yes," he replied, pulling her on to restart their progress, "it is most _definitely_ a thing."

"Good," she smiled, her head tilting up defiantly at the stares they were getting. "Let's give them all something to _really_ talk about."


	8. To the Surface

Author's Note: Written for Round 9 of the QLFC 6 — I am Woman

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Luna Lovegood

Prompts Used:

7 (word) evoke

8 (quote) Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer. - John Keats

11 (word) association

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1837

 **A/N:** AU — I'm going to diverge from cannon a bit in the love department and insinuate myself a little Harmony. The best part of working with a team is when they convert you to their #ship. You know who you are ;)

There was something about the Keat's quote that struck me — and perhaps not in a conventional way. It somehow reminded me of Eleanor Rigby and the face in the jar — and it got me started on a path of imagining if Luna were somehow the odd duck we came to know in the books because that is the "face" she chose to wear in order to best communicate with others; as contrary as that might seem. Luna's nature would never be one of conventionality, but in being unique, was finer and better suited to playing her part in Harry Potter's life. From that perspective, Luna sort of reminds me of Cassandra of Greek mythology—except Luna is heeded even if she isn't always understood. So, I am playing and exploring with those ideas here.

Keats' wrote his original _The Human Seasons_ in the same letter to a friend from which the quote here was taken. In that letter, he describes a drowning man still clinging to the hope of life. It is from that letter than I take my title and owe due to even more of John Keats' elegant words.

 **Beta Love:** crochetaway and Story, Please

 **To the Surface**

Harry looked up and waved nervously from the table. It had been some months since he'd seen his eccentric friend, even though she had taken up employment so close to the Ministry in Diagon Alley. Of course, Luna would never mention it, but it made Harry feel all the more guilty for his neglect of her.

The fact that he'd invited her to lunch so he could hash out his own troubles only evoked a deeper sense of remorse in him. He was not a good friend; not, at least, in the way he wanted to be. He didn't want their association to only be of benefit to him, but, to date, he hadn't found a way to make it right.

"Hi there, Harry," she said nonchalantly as she took the seat beside him. Harry slid over, shocked at her choice as he had purposefully left the seat across the table vacant. Luna wasn't one for social norms, but this was unusual — even for Loony Luna Lovegood. She immediately grabbed the steaming teapot and poured both of their cups.

"So," she said, stirring an alarming number of sugar cubes into her tea, "how are you?"

"I should be asking you that."

"But you didn't invite me over here to talk about _me_." She smiled despite her cutting, direct remark. Luna had that way about her. She could be devastating in her honesty; and she never seemed to be resentful about it. She accepted everything just as it was. Even him.

"Well, that's not entirely true…" he started to reply, but Luna only broadened her simpering smile over her cup. In her own, inimitable way, she called him out without ever having to say a word.

"Why don't you tell me what's on your mind, Harry?" she asked, the lilt in her voice, as ever, unassuming. It still caught him off-guard; how naïve she could seem. Now, as he sat there with her, his own mind clouded with doubts, he could not help but wonder if there wasn't something more than placid artlessness to Luna's approach to life. Her turnip earrings and her wrackspurts aside; she had always proven to be more than her odd exterior. Harry frowned at his jumbled thoughts.

"Harry?" Luna prodded, her hand reaching over to take his forearm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered, hurriedly, grabbing up his teacup and taking a sip. "It's just…"

"...not what you originally wanted to talk about?" she finished for him.

"Right," he was more puzzled than ever. " How did you know?"

"How do I _ever_ know, Harry?" She smiled, a crumb of scone still caught on her lip. Harry reached up, and gently brushed it away. "We are friends. I _always_ know."

"Yeah, but _how_?" he pressed, insistent. Harry was sure he had invited Luna here for something else, but now it all seemed so irrelevant. The smile dropped away from Luna's face.

"You want to know about Ginny," she said. It wasn't a question. Luna turned her attention back to her plate, but her demeanor was uncannily un-Luna-like. "You want to know about love and how it feels and…" she looked back up into his eyes, "...and more."

"Yes," was all he could say. He didn't have the wherewithal to ask her again how she knew.

"Ginny has many passions," Luna went on. Her body was angled towards him now, her tea and scones forgotten. Harry would have been dumbfounded by the change in her bearing if he'd noticed; but he was so focused what she was saying, it had not yet gotten through. "She loves her family. And Quidditch. And sweaters with really long sleeves." Luna let out a giggle after that last one. "Did I ever tell you about the time when she stole my favorite sweater? We were in Third Year, I think. Or maybe Fourth..."

"Luna," Harry leaned in, taking her hands, "I just need to know. Does she love _me_?

Luna slid her hands out of Harry's, her eyes downcast. "At least as much as she loves a good cardigan with deep pockets," she said. "But maybe not as much as you love her." And then it happened again. Her manner changed and she looked at Harry directly. "Not as much as you _think_ you love her."

Harry flopped back in his seat, his hand reflexively reaching up to his scar, rubbing. "What do you mean?" he murmured, his voice hardly audible. "That I _don't_ love Ginny?"

"Are you surprised?"

And that was it, wasn't it? He _wasn't_ surprised. It was the answer he'd been expecting.

"But why did _you_ ask _me_?" Luna asked before Harry could. His eyes only widened with apprehension.

"Some—how," he stammered, "somehow I knew that you _knew_." Luna's smile returned; it wasn't nearly as full or as carefree anymore.

"And why is that?" she asked, prodding.

It was a damned good question. Harry sat there, his heart beating too wildly in his chest as his eyes darted back and forth. He looked as if he were searching for an answer on the bare table before him. "You _always_ know," he managed, finally.

Luna never looked at him, instead folding up her napkin and reaching for her purse. She placed a few pounds on the table and sipped the last of her tea from her cup before moving to leave.

Harry grabbed her by the arm, preventing her departure. "No, wait! You can't go now."

Luna looked up at him, her eyes locked on his. "She will be miserable, you know." She was almost pleading with him.

"I know," he replied, softly.

"You could fix that," she whispered back.

"But _he's_ my friend, too."

"He will forgive you," she said, "in time."

Harry felt his grip loosening on Luna's arm. She smoothed down her sleeve and stood up from the table. "Hermione," was all he said.

"Yes," she agreed with a smile. "Hermione." Luna grabbed her her jacket and made for the exit.

"Can I walk you back to _The Prophesier_?" Harry rushed after her, throwing an absurd number of bills and the check at the hostess on his way out the door.

"If you wish," Luna replied, serenely, as if she had not just delivered to him the most significant, life-changing information he'd ever received since finding out he was a wizard. They fell into step and headed back down Charing Cross.

"You're a Seer," he said after a few minutes. He felt stupid for having taken as long as he did to put it all together. How many times in his association with one Luna Lovegood had Harry wondered if she knew more than she was letting on. _Too many to count_.

"Yes," was all she said in reply.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"I didn't think I needed to. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway," she sighed. "People see what they want to see — they hear what they want to hear. It would only have made things worse."

"Worse? How?" Harry was genuinely perplexed.

"You were in the Department of Mysteries, Harry," she said. "You've seen the prophecy. And yet, you know full well how Sybill Trelawney was treated. Why would I reveal to _anyone_ what I was?"

He couldn't argue that point. Trelawney was a laughing stock even among her fellow professors, and yet, her prediction had been true — it had altered the shape of the war. Had she ever received the thanks she so richly deserved? Had she ever been acknowledged for her vital part?

"Do you think I enjoy the funny looks? The odd names?" she asked him. Harry had been stunned speechless before — mostly from his own stupidity — but Luna was taking it to another level.

"I never thought about it. I—I guess I thought it was just who you were." Harry frowned and kicked a stone out into the street. "Are you—Are you saying it's all an _act_?" he asked.

"No, silly," she replied quickly with something like reassurance. "Not _exactly_. It was just easier."

"How could it be easier to be 'Loony'?" he gaped.

Luna stopped at the phone booth outside of _The Porcupine_. The box was occupied, so Luna sidled up against it to wait her turn. As she did so, she leaned in to whisper, "Because no one minded me. No one thought it strange when _I_ said strange things — I _was_ strange. Get it?" She peered around and gave an impatient harumph at the oblivious young woman chatting away on the phone before continuing. "Even _you_ didn't think about it too much," she winked. "You would just think back on some crazy thing I'd said, and have an epiphany and...well, the rest, as they say, is history."

Harry couldn't argue the facts; he never really had questioned Luna's unique brand of friendship. He valued her just as she was; and when she proved to be right, in her oddball, roundabout way..." Harry could only stare with renewed admiration. Luna smiled at the budding revelation evident on his face.

Leaning in just a bit closer, she whispered, "Do you think you would have believed me if I had just come right out and told you that _you_ were a Horcrux?" She arched her eyebrow at him to emphasize her point. "It's okay, Harry," she laid her hand on his arm to soothe him. "We all had a part to play," her eyes met his, "And mine was easy. All I had to do was be your friend — Ah! _Finally_!" she announced as the phone booth opened up and Luna jumped right in.

Harry propped himself up against the red box and brooded. Would he have believed her? Now, in retrospect, he'd like to think he would. But if he were being honest with himself, he knew that just wasn't the case.

After a few moments, Luna concluded her call and reemerged.

"Who was that?" Harry asked.

"Hermione," she said.

"Hermione?" he started. "Why did you call Hermione?!"

"I told her you needed to speak to her."

"But why? I don't— I _can't_!"

"Why not?" Luna asked. "You love her." She had stopped walking and turned, all but forcing Harry to run into her on the busy sidewalk. Luna reached out to steady him; there was something calming in her touch. "You have _always_ loved her."

"Yes—no— _wait_!" Harry stumbled. "How do I _do_ this? How do I just tell Hermione that I _love_ her?"

"Perhaps you just did," Luna replied, her eyes focused on something just beyond Harry's shoulder. He closed his eyes, not daring to turn despite knowing exactly who stood there.

"Now there's a nice bit of scenery," Luna murmured to herself as she slipped away unnoticed. She could not help the snatches of poetry that came to mind in those moments. _He has his Summer...to ruminate, and by such dreaming high is nearest unto heaven._

She would have hoped for it to be true, if she did not already know the outcome.


	9. Till Death Do Us Part

Author's Note: Written for Round 10 of the QLFC 6 — Soapies

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Write about a death at an otherwise happy event (a wedding, a birthday party, etc.)

Prompts Used:

2 (object) potion vial

6 (word) poisonous

8 (pairing) Andromeda Black/ Ted Tonks

Word Count (excluding Author's Note):

 **A/N:** AU — Little is known about the death of Druella Rosier Black. The HP Wiki lists it as 1955 or later, with no specifics about how she died either — which is about as flexible as a death gets. Lucky me. Considering that it is not spelled out, I will consider it an AU for the purposes of respecting Rowling's universe in which it was irrelevant.

This feels like it has some relation to a recent story I wrote with both Andromeda, Ted and the Black sisters for a previous round, and in my head, it might. However, no particular correlation is being drawn from that story to this.

 **Beta Love: Litfreak89, Sehanine, and Story, Please.**

 **Till Death Do Us Part**

"Tessa, you've outdone yourself!" Andromeda squealed as she squeezed the owner of _The White Wyvern_ in a giant hug. The usually cozy, if outdated, pub was bright with streamers, flower bouquets and a ceiling enchanted with a starry night sky. The tables groaned under the weight of the spread of food that had been prepared and a growing pile of beautifully wrapped gifts bowed another. Andromeda was overwhelmed. It was all she could do to keep her joyful tears in check.

When Ted had originally suggested that they throw their engagement party there, she had a hard time imagining it — but he seemed so sentimental for the place, and it didn't much matter to Andromeda. So, with very little fuss, she agreed; Andromeda was happy to make Ted happy in ways big and small. Now, as she stood in the warm glow of the gold and silver crepe, she could hardly believe she had ever considered anywhere else.

"I wouldn't do this for just anyone, ya know," Tessa teased as she broke their embrace and wiped a tear from her own cheek. "I just couldn't turn that silly man of yours down!" Andromeda looked over the woman's shoulder into the crowd, easily spotting him. Tall and lean, Ted Tonks stood a head above most of the people in the room. Even if he hadn't, he would have stood out for his inability to stop staring at the magically enchanted ceiling — his chin pointing almost straight up, his head tilted back at an awkwardly uncomfortable angle. It made Andromeda smile. So many things about Ted did.

She hadn't meant to fall for him. It certainly had brought her nothing but trouble from her family, but it seemed almost inevitable, in hindsight. Their accidental meeting in this very bar was the whole reason Ted insisted on hosting the party here. That, and the fact that he didn't want Andromeda to lose contact with the Wizarding World because of him. Of course, Ted knew that her associating with him was a problem for her family — it was no secret among most of the alleyways and shops in magical London that the Black family was especially particular about their marriage unions. As Andromeda's relationship with Ted became more serious, her parents became distant to the point where they now only communicated through her sisters. Muggle-born or not, Ted appreciated that her life was changing inextricably by marrying him — and he was doing everything in his power to maintain _some_ level of normalcy for her.

Andromeda could not help but smile as she walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Doesn't your neck hurt?"

"Not enough to get me to stop," he sighed happily. He turned quickly, pulling her close and Andromeda instinctively responded by tilting her face up to meet his kiss. She felt rather than saw the arrival of yet another guest, the green glow of the Floo pushing its harsh contrast through the thin skin of her closed eyelids. It was a reminder to her how many other people she had yet to greet — people, Muggle and Magical, who chose to support and celebrate their union rather than shun them. Andromeda was only just beginning to appreciate the love in the room when her attention was yanked back to reality by an unexpected tap on the shoulder.

"Can we talk?" came the soft, but commanding, voice from behind her.

"Narcissa?" she asked, stunned. No one could have convinced her that any of her immediate family would voluntarily show up to this. Andromeda was incredulous at the petite blond form before her. "Is that you, Sirius?" she prodded. "That is _not_ funny. You _know_ not to joke about the family—"

"It is NOT Sirius Black," Narcissa hissed, "but it _is_ serious. Otherwise, why would _I_ be _here_?" She hit the last word in such a way that left no misunderstanding that the person standing beside her was, indeed, Narcissa Black. "I can't think of anywhere I'd like to be less, actually."

Narcissa was a sleek combination of their mother's haughtiness and their father's ideologies. She could turn her nose up in the most beautiful way — it almost felt like a compliment to be insulted by her. Perfect as she appeared though, Narcissa had a nasty habit of defiance when it came to Andromeda. While everyone else had written her off as a Muggle-loving fool (and far worse, if the rumors could be believed), Narcissa continued to visit — even if those visits had become less frequent. Andromeda was grateful to still have some connection to her family, even if it was tenuous and somewhat begrudging.

"Nice to see you, Cissy," Ted piped up. It was his one act of insolence; he just could not abide being ignored. Andromeda smirked as her well-bred sister struggled against her nature. It would be rude to ignore him now that he'd addressed her, but it was clearly evident by the look on her face that she absolutely _loathed_ to speak with him.

"Ted," she managed between lips that hardly moved.

"Can I get you a drink, love?" He turned to Andromeda, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

"I would _love_ one," Andromeda replied. She had a feeling she was going to need it, and she was appreciative of his grace to find a suitable reason to leave her and her sister alone. She gave his hand one last squeeze and watched him wander off into the throng of well-wishers as he made his way to the bar.

"There's no need to be so rude, Cissy," Andromeda turned back to her youngest sibing.

"I don't know what you mean." Narcissa sniffed, her hand instinctively sweeping back behind her neck to allow her fingers to shake out her long, lustrous blonde hair. Andromeda was jealous of few things, but Narcissa's ability to own a room with a flick of the wrist was enviable. "Besides," she continued, "would I be here if it weren't _absolutely_ necessary?"

Andromeda had to think. When was the last time she and Narcissa had gotten together? Even her youngest sister had started to pull back once it became clear that Andromeda planned to make her relationship with Ted permanent. She was sure it had been months since they'd gotten together, but with all the wedding plans to manage, Andromeda had hardly noticed. _Has it been a whole year?_

"Andromeda! Are you even listening to me?" Narcissa demanded. "Mother is on her way!"

"What?!"

A cruel smirk crept over her sister's face. "Oh, yes, dearest sister. Our loving, compassionate, supportive _mum_ is coming to celebrate your pending nuptials." _Read: Our domineering, demanding, and far from understanding mother is coming to drag me away from the life I love whether I like it or not._ Andromeda wanted desperately to wipe the smile off Narcissa's face, but she had to be mindful of the kindness her sister had actually done her. She had come to give her warning.

"Thank you," was all Andromeda managed before she turned and made a beeline for the bar where Ted was gathering up drinks. She wove her way through a throng of bodies to get there which only amplified her anxiety. _All these people…_

She practically ran into him as Ted turned, his hands full, in an attempt to rejoin the party. "WHOA!" he shifted just a second too slowly, spilling something cold and blue down his front. The little paper umbrella got stuck in his shirt pocket. Andromeda could see frustration flash across his face, but once Ted met her gaze and read her panic, it passed quickly enough.

"Andromeda?" he asked, reaching back with his one surviving beverage to place it on the bar top. "Andromeda. What's wrong?"

"My mother—" she gasped. When had she started crying? "My mo— _hic_ —my mother is— _hic_ —is coming he— _hic_ —here!"

"Okay," he grasped her up into his arms, and squeezed. "It's okay, love," he whispered in her ear. "We are okay. She can't take you from me," he leaned back to look into her eyes. "Remember? We talked about this." And they had. Andromeda was certain to be honest with Ted about her family; their prejudices, their proclivities. But she was never sure if he took her seriously.

 _We're about to find out_.

Tessa had come out from behind the bar with a glass of soda water and a rag, in an attempt to help Ted clean up. In doing so, she slipped Andromeda a small vial. "Good for the nerves," she said, genially, patting her hand before declaring Ted's shirt a total loss and scurrying off to find him a replacement. "I'm sure I have something of my husband's hanging in the office that will fit," she shouted back over her shoulder as she left the room. Andromeda stared after her, the potion bottle still in her hand.

"What's that?" Ted asked. Andromeda felt herself blush as she looked up to find him shirtless. It was still hard for her to imagine that he was all hers.

"A calming draught of some sort," she replied, her eyes darting back to the phial so that she would stop gaping at him. She noticed that it had a sort of shimmer to it. "Odd…"

"Oh yeah? — Hey, thanks, Tessa," he threw towards the Wyvern's owner as he shrugged on the replacement shirt. "Odd, how?"

Andromeda rolled the vial around in the dim lighting. "I just can't say I've ever see—"

BANG!

The door to _The White Wyvern_ almost exploded as Bellatrix came barreling through, her wand extended, clearing the way for the more dignified entrance of one Druella Rosier Black. Only the music played on as people pressed themselves away from the commotion at the door and the wild-haired woman in black waving her wand.

"Andromeda Vinda Black!" Druella bellowed, commanding the room seemingly without effort. The few people that were left at the bar quickly disappeared, leaving only Andromeda and her semi-dressed fiancé to stare down the petite, dark-eyed woman with the larger-than-life reputation. "I do believe your father and I have entertained your unruliness long enough," she said, snatching up her middle daughter's wrist as if she were going to drag her out bodily. Andromeda looked beyond her mother's slight form to see that Bellatrix kept her wand directed at her. There would be no struggle; she would come — willingly or no.

Druella sneered at Ted and turned her back on him as if he didn't exist. "While I am sure he is a perfectly fine specimen of manhood," she said with obvious distaste, "this _Muggle-born_ is no fit match for a Black. Your father and I will _NOT_ have it." She nodded at Bellatrix who continued to inch closer, ever the silent threat. "It is time that you put aside this foolishness and return home. We will see you make a _proper_ match."

Andromeda knew that there would be little and less her mother would listen to; Druella's daughters were to be seen, not heard. But as she looked back at Ted, seeing the pain in his expression, she knew she would have to speak up — if only for him.

"No." It was meek and quiet, but it was a start.

" _What_ did you say?" Her mother asked, her voice also subdued, but forceful.

"No, mother," Andromeda continued, her voice gaining in volume, if only just a bit. She kept her eyes locked on Ted so she wouldn't lose her nerve. "I said, no!"

"Are you drunk or stupid?" Druella crossed the distance between them with deceptive speed, grabbing at Andromeda's face, turning it forcefully so they were looking at each other. The movement startled Andromeda. Instinctively, she reached out to brace herself — and dropped the vial.

"What's this?!" Druella stooped down, swiftly grabbing up the potions ampule from the ground. Her eyes narrowed and she looked directly at Ted. " _Now_ it makes sense," Druella shouted. "You're drugging her! I should've known there was no way _my_ daughter would turn her back on her family voluntarily."

"NO!" Andromeda shouted. "No, mother. He didn't—he hasn't—"

"Quiet!" Druella growled, cocking her hand back as if to strike her daughter. Andromeda cringed, but no blow came. Not yet, anyway. For all her outward appearances of courtesy and calm, Druella Black had a temper than could get away from her; it was a fact all her daughter's knew frightfully well.

She tilted the phial up toward the light, turning it this-way-and-that, much as Andromeda had done only minutes before. "Looks mundane enough," Druella mumbled mostly to herself. "Much like _him_." The matriarch of the Black family would not even allow Ted's name to cross her lips. To everyone's surprise, she popped the cork from the vial and sniffed before drinking down the potion in one gulp.

Bellatrix and Narcissa stood stock still — shocked. Andromeda's head swiveled around the find Ted, his wand being withdrawn back up his sleeve.

"What did you do?" she hissed at him.

"A mild Confundus charm," he replied, nonchalantly. Andromeda dug her fingers into his arm to express her displeasure. "What?!" he exclaimed. "You said it was a calming draught. She certainly needed one."

Bellatrix immediately rushed to her mother's side, while Narcissa confronted Andromeda.

" _What_ is _in_ that?" she snarled.

"It's nothing more than a nerve tonic," Andromeda answered, already bone weary from the stress of it all. "Tessa gave it to me to—" Andromeda peered over her shoulder to look for the barkeep, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Mother? MOTHER?!" Bellatrix had cut into her sisters conversation. "She's falling over — There's something wrong! Help me, you dolts!"

Both Narcissa and Andromeda, with the significant strength of one Ted Tonks, grabbed up the slumping form of Druella Black, laying her out on the floor after several attempts to prop her back up in her seat failed.

"That's some tonic," Ted mused, only to receive a well-placed elbow in the side from his better half.

"Mother," Narcissa whispered, lightly patting her hand. "She's getting cold," she said, accusingly, her glace icy hot on her sister and her lover. Andromeda started at Narcissa's words, sliding out of her seat and next to her mother. Her fingers instinctively reached for the delicate wrist and she began to beat out a pulse.

"It's slowing," she admitted, looking up at Ted with fear. "Her heart is slowing down." Andromeda was stricken. She may not have agreed with her mother on everything, but she'd never wanted her dead. She frantically looked from face to face, trying to find someone to help.

Druella, for her part, never uttered a word. Her gaze fogged over and all the tension she held in her face seemed to ebb away, leaving behind a lovely visage — the clear inheritance of all her daughters.

Andromeda found her mind racing, along with her heart. _Could it have been poisonous? Why would Tessa give me something so dangerous? Could she have made a mistake..._ Her eyes combed the pub for her friend, but there was no sign of her.

Andromeda reached out and clutched at Ted, afraid to leave her mother's side. "Tessa," she squeaked. "She's gone." Ted's head whipped around, scanning the room quickly. When he turned back to her, she could see by his expression that also could not find her. "We _need_ to find her. We _have_ to know what was in that vial." At that moment, Druella's body heaved up, her face contorting in silent pain before she collapsed back down, motionless.

Andromeda screamed. "Hurry, Ted! Find her!"

Ted ran, tearing through the _Wyvern_ , opening doors, and calling out into otherwise empty rooms. From the back of the darkened kitchen, he was answered by the flapping of the screen door in the evening breeze — and the empty alley beyond.

As he stood at the open door, he couldn't help but wonder what sort of omen it was to have death hang over the start this new life. He wondered how long it would take Andromeda to realize that _she_ had been the intended target. He wondered if it had been meant for him, too. He wondered what it all meant. And his only answer was the howling of the wind, and the growing wail of sorrow coming from the other room.


	10. The Chosen Two

Author's Note: Written for Round 11 of the QLFC 6 — Who's Afraid of the Dark

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Add'l Prompts Used:

4 (word) pattern

5 (object) a torn dress

13 (location) St. Mungo's

*11 (colour) lilac

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2424

 **A/N:** AU — Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a movie, a comic book series, and a well-loved TV serial. Within the Buffyverse, the origins of Slayers is explored and explained — and the mythology defines how the original Slayer was created, how the next Slayer is designated from the Slayer (blood)line and that only one Slayer exists at a time. Until it doesn't — the fallout of the technical death of Buffy that triggers the investment of a new Slayer despite the fact that Buffy is resuscitated. And then there were two.

It is this part of the Buffy mythology that I am inspired by — the idea that instead of there only being one "chosen" according to Trelawney's prophecy, that maybe there were two. It's pretty close to what Rowling herself was doing when we first encounter how the prophecy could also have involved Neville Longbottom in canon. And what we know is, ultimately, Neville _was_ chosen — he was an essential part of the defeat of Voldemort. I'm going to explore the idea that Neville was aware of his status as "chosen" and how that may have became a part of his character growth from shy, tentative boy to defiant, principled young man.

Finally, I haven't nailed down the timing here, although there are allusions to Autumn and Neville's coursework, as well as a specific reference to his age as 15. I am not certain if Advanced Charms would be available to Neville in his Fourth Year, per se, but since it is only a quick reference to a canonical argument between Augusta and Minerva, I thought it made for a nice little addition.

 **Beta Love:** Story, Please and crochetaway

 **The Chosen Two**

"Don't dawdle," Augusta Longbottom chided. "We have much to discuss."

"I just don't understand why we needed to come _here_ though, Gran." Neville dreaded these visits to St. Mungo's, especially now that his grandmother had, suddenly and inexplicably, increased their frequency. He felt as if he spent every free moment away from school stuck under the green haze of hospital fluorescents. He gazed longingly back towards the soft lilac dusk that was settling over the city on this particular autumn evening, and sighed before shuffling along at a nominally faster pace.

Augusta flinched, evidently resisting the urge to grab him by the sleeve. "Some things should be discussed with your parents," was all she said in reply as she resumed her brisk pace, her heels clacking loudly in the barren hall. Neville knew all too well that some things should not be pressed with Augusta once her mind was made up — but he had never quite been sure what she thought she was sharing with his parents, exactly. Broken as they were, Augusta Longbottom seemed incapable of accepting that they were no more than shells of flesh. She dutifully dragged Neville to this very place to update them on everything: his grades — his course selections — his growth spurts — his friends. Even his first kiss (much to Neville's eternal embarrassment)! She would sit beside her son, Frank, and prattle on as if they were all three together, amiably chatting about her only grandson rather than the reality — that she was talking to herself.

Neville could only shrug his shoulders as he shoved his hands further down into his trouser pockets and trudged along behind her.

Augusta had already assumed her preferred seat in the common room of the Janus Thickey ward. She chose a somewhat private enclave area by a bay window overlooking the gardens. It had been her place of choice for the past year or so; and, particularly when there was important information to be shared. They were ensconced between a thickly populated bookcase and the nurse's station, creating an illusion of privacy. Considering the condition of most of the patients, Neville wondered if it mattered, but he daren't say anything aloud.

He carefully moved the overstuffed lounge chair _he_ usually occupied towards the edge of the circle, just beside the bookcase. It gave him a view of the gardens and access to the occasionally interesting reads that were kept on the shelf. Today, however, he would not be left to the peace of reading.

"No, no, boy," Augusta piped up before he could sit. "I want you right here." She patted a similarly appointed chair next to her own. "By me." Neville stared for a moment, flustered. Augusta was never one to feign affection; she was always honest in her feelings. And from what Neville could tell, she felt a healthy amount of disappointment about her son's son. He moved, reluctantly, and sat down to await the arrival of his parents.

Within minutes, Miriam Strout arrived, cheerfully pushing along Alice and Frank Longbottom, each strapped in to their wheeled chairs and arranging them across from Neville and his grandmother. "Always good to see you, Madam," she piped happily. "Will this do?" she asked of the physical arrangement.

"We have some delicate matters to discuss today, Miriam," Augusta answered. "If you would move them a bit closer..." Miriam looked over at Neville and made a face, but moved the chairs all the same.

"Very well — that's fine," Augusta said, brusquely. "You can go." Neville cringed at his grandmother's rudeness, but when he met Miriam's eyes, she gave him a wink and departed with a spring in her step. Neville envied her ability to let things roll off her back.

"Good," Augusta began, inching her chair even closer to her son and daughter-in-law. Neville, too, leaned in. He was so close to Augusta, he could see the distinct dots of colour in her Donegal tweed skirt. "This must be for our ears, and our ears alone," she whispered conspiratorially. "I was told this on pain of death by someone I trust."

Neville could feel his palms sweating — he felt off, as if something terrible was about to happen, but he couldn't quite justify the notion. Nothing in Augusta's demeanor on their travels to the hospital had lead him to believe that this was anything but a mundane visit to see his parents. He had even assumed that Augusta would be taking the time to complain about Professor McGonagall's interference in his course scheduling for next year — approving his request to take Advanced Charms against _her_ express wishes.

He wondered if he would've rather have had that conversation than whatever was about to be discussed. Neville found himself looking at his mother's face as she stared off into nothing — it was somehow comforting.

"No, Frank, this is _not_ one of my 'bridge buddies'," Augusta sniped. Neville had long heard her talk to his parents as if they were talking themselves. It was just something she did. "I can't say _who_ it is, but you can be rest assured, they are amongst the _highest echelons_ of the Ministry." Augusta prided herself on her connections. It wasn't hard for Neville to imagine her with friends deeply embedded in the Ministry's administration — he'd tended to tea for the likes of Walburga Black and an even elder Malfoy matriarch at Augusta's bridge table.

"There are whispers," she continued, breaking into Neville's own thoughts, "about the Prophecy." She paused to look around before she continued. "Trelawney's prophecy — the one they assumed was about the Potter boy…" She waited, as if one or the other of her children were speaking. Neville waited too; he didn't dare interrupt the illusion Augusta had created for herself.

"Precisely, Alice," she said to her silent daughter-in-law. "It may not be about Potter alone. Or even, at all." Augusta's eyes drifted to Neville, and he flinched. He didn't enjoy being under her scrutiny for too long; she was like to find something lacking.

"It turns out that it isn't all that clear," she continued. "I guess that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. You are right about that, Frank," she said, nodding in agreement.

Neville felt the lump in his throat growing. Should he be worried? Why would she care about some prophecy anyway? Despite all his best instincts, Neville heard his voice break into the silence of the gathering. "What do you mean, Gran?"

She whipped her head around to look at him. "It means that the Prophecy, as it stands, could as easily have been about _you_ as it might be about the Potter boy." She grasped his hand and squeezed it as tightly as he could ever remember her doing. " _You_ could be the one," she said in a low voice.

"The one for _what_?" Neville squeaked out, wincing as her grasp tightened even further.

"To meet the Dark Lord in battle and defeat him." A self-satisfied smile came across Augusta's face, as if she was already proud of the deed yet to be done. She was gloating in advance. Neville could only look from the vacant stare of his mother to the balding, drooped head of his catatonic father, and back. Neither of them seemed to register a thing about what had been said — as they had not for as long as Neville could recall.

"I—in—in b—ba—battle?" he stammered out.

"Yes, of course," Augusta replied, her voice raised, anxious. "There will, inevitably, be another war —" She lost her thread as she looked at her son. The last war had cost Augusta dearly — in some ways, it was more than she was willing to part with. She had never given up on her son, or his wife, instead choosing to maintain a regular visitation schedule to St. Mungo's in the fervent and unwavering belief that they would, eventually, return to her.

Now, as she considered the prospect of another war, the fright of what could be seemed to settle on her suddenly. Her face went pale as milk. Her silence frightened Neville more than her usually incessant chatter.

"Gran?" He reached out, missing her as she rose from her seat and crossed to Frank. Neville hadn't ever seen his father animated in any way. He had photos, of a certainty, and that provided a bit of what he knew about his father's mannerisms — the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed or how he didn't seem able to talk without using his hands — but it wasn't the same as actually interacting with him. Not really.

Now, as he watched Augusta place her small, wrinkled hands on her son's face, lifting his head so she could look into his vacant eyes, Neville could only wonder what it might be like to hear his father talk, or laugh, or even cry. _Anything_. It was only as his own sadness pressed heavy against his chest that he noticed Augusta's tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I know, Frank," she was whispering. "I know. I promised to keep him safe. I did…" Her sobs came heavy now. "But wha—what can I do? If he's the _one_?" Frank's head bobbed as Augusta withdrew her hands abruptly, dashing from their nook in her overwhelming grief to leave Neville alone with his parents for the first time in his memory.

He was fifteen.

In Augusta's rush to flee, she dropped a crumpled piece of parchment she had been clutching. Neville reached down to retrieve it and recognized it for notes; notes she had been keeping for herself. Only parts of it was still legible, some of it fading with age, some of it being smeared. Still, he tried to read it. "— _parents_ — _three times defiant. Born_ — _sev- -nth_ — _Marked as his equal (by taking his parents?). One must die."_

Neville let the paper flutter back to the floor as his knees gave out and he stumbled. His head ended up in his mother's lap, his hands clutching at her dress — his fingers dancing anxiously over the tatters along her hem. What he wouldn't have given to have felt her fingers in his hair. Just a single reassuring touch in his moment of despair. He looked up at Alice, to find her staring back down at him — a split second of clarity in her eyes. Neville grabbed up her hand and held it to his own face. He wanted so much to remember what she felt like, what she sounded like — before he died.

He squeezed tight until he was sure he'd felt her squeeze back.

"It's not up to Gran anymore," he started to say after a long while. "It's not her job to keep me safe. Her job is done." He looked up again and thought he saw a smile on his mother's lips. "It's my turn to protect _her_ now. I might be the only one who can."

"Then again, you might not be." Miriam Strout had returned on silent feet to reclaim her charges. "Not all by your lonesome, anyway." She hesitated, her face downcast, embarrassed. It was clear she shouldn't have said anything. "I should probably take them back to their rooms so they can rest," she said, changing the subject hurriedly.

Neville scrambled to his feet, roughly brushing his tears away with the sleeve of his woolen jumper. "Yes, of course. I'm sor—"

"There's no need to be sorry," she interrupted him as she bustled about to get Alice and Frank ready to move. She took her position behind Alice's chair before she paused to look at Neville again. "You grandmother is here frequently. I hear things," she said, her eyes looking downcast. "I know I shouldn't but—"

"Gran is loud," Neville provided. He smiled sheepishly at Miriam and she nodded in agreement.

"She _can_ be," Miriam agreed. "And she has been somewhat animated of late. Since this whole 'Prophecy' thing came up." Neville shifted slowly, regaining his footing. He found himself at eye level with the assertive Healer. "Prophecies are frequently difficult to understand," she continued, her eyes locked with his. "People get into trouble trying to make _this_ prophecy happen or trying to make sure _that_ other one doesn't happen…it's all nonsense." Miriam kicked off the brake of Alice's chair and began to move her.

"But what if it's true?" Neville found his own voice raised, his body, somehow, impeding Miriam's forward progress. He's eyes drifted, again, to the rip in his mother's gown, the slight smile on her face. "What do I do?"

"What can you do, but go forward?" Augusta piped up behind him, and Neville turned. "You will be a Longbottom, and if it is your fate to be chosen, then so be it." Augusta had never been what Neville would have called affectionate, but she had always cared for him — and she had always made it clear that she loved him. For the first time, though, he thought, just maybe, she was proud of him. Her hand reached for his own, and she squeezed it, however briefly.

"And Harry?" Neville asked.

"What of Potter?" Augusta asked. "If it is _his_ fate, I'm certain he will need all the help he can get. Just the way _you_ will if it is your burden to bear." She stepped in, placing her hands on his shoulders and staring into his eyes. "Be there for him, Neville. Be his friend when he needs it most and he will do the same for you. No matter what comes next." Augusta's gaze could not help but drift to Frank, and then to Alice; the consequences, even unspoken, were there for all to see. Nothing would come without a price.

"Come, then, Neville," Augusta commanded, her composure returning. "It's time we put you on the train." She nodded curtly at Healer Strout and headed towards the exit. Neville lingered listening to his mother hum.

"Well, she's never done that before," Miriam said, her eyes wide and smiling. "This whole day has been full of surprises, hasn't it?" The healer seemed to take up the tune as she went about guiding the couple back towards their rooms. _Surprises, indeed_.

As his train pulled out of the station, he sat alone, looking out the window as the parting fog gave way over a sunlit valley of autumn leaves — and he found himself serene. Come what may, he would play his role; one of the chosen two.


	11. A Naan in the Tandoor

Author's Note: Written for Round 12 of the QLFC 6 — Character Study: Ron Weasley

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Write about Ron's relationship with one of his siblings (Ginny)

Add'l Prompts Used:

3 (quote) If you carry joy in your heart you can heal any moment - Carlos Santana

8 (word) ferocious

9 (image) Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico, 1941 - Ansel Adams

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1696

 **A/N: AU.** I feel like joy is the epitome of what makes Ron Weasley so essential to the Trio and to us, the readers. He and his family may not have much, but he has happiness to spare and he's liberal in sharing it. It is also what is so devastating about his change when he encounters and then wears the Horcrux-ed locket. To see and feel Ron in despair is so counter to everything _he_ is. When I consider Santana's quote here, I feel like it is too easy to feel like it was written for Ron. He brings his joy to everything he does, be it getting into a little mischief with his friends or lightening the mood with a joke. Ron _is_ joy.

As for Adams' _Moonrise_ , it was listed on the link as his most sought after work — which I find questionable when you consider his National Parks images. However, it is an exploration of the foreign and the stark, something that was not necessarily what Adams was known for when you consider his lush photographs of snow-capped mountains, deep rivers, or stands of trees. And yet, it is clear that Adams' sees this nightscape, too, as filled with it's own beauty. It is plain, and it is clear — there is something very forthright in that, and I think it is very reflective of the Weasley's in general, but of Ron in particular. He may lack nuance, at times, but with Ron, you always know where you stand. I hope to portray here a relationship between siblings that is plain and unadorned, but always full of the beauty of the love they have for each other.

While relationships here are canon, timing may not be. Although marriage dates and birth dates, in some circumstances, are rather vague, we can be sure that certain things _must_ happen within certain time frames in order for the "Epilogue" and _The Cursed Child_ to take place when they do. And I am preserving all of that timing. That being said, I am marking this AU since I may be insinuating that James Sirius was not planned, and that Harry and Ginny may not (yet) be married, and while Rowling is also rather vague on those specifics, it is clear that she likes her couples married so I will acknowledge that this deviates, even if only slightly.

One final note on the noun, Tandoor, which is the oven itself. It makes things, meats, breads, et al., in a Tandoori style. Because this is a foreign word that is now used in modern English, I thought that appropriate application of grammar rules would be understood, but decided to add this note, just in case.

 **Beta Love:** Story, Please and crochetaway - my stalwarts. Thank you.

 **A Naan in the Tandoor**

It was hard to catch his sister in the middle of the Quidditch season. Ron Weasley occupied himself with a borrowed Muggle newspaper as he waited in the chilly, but bright window seat in _Dishoom_ , just off of Slingsby. It was Ginny's favorite - and maybe even more so when she was on tour with the team. According to the youngest Weasley, one could not get a reputable curry _anywhere_ in greater Britain - but most especially in Ireland. Having checked the _Harpies_ schedule, Ron knew she wouldn't turn down the invite no matter how busy she was. Ginny was was nothing if not reliable.

He turned the paper upside down, staring at the photograph of the beleaguered Muggle Prime Minister. The headlines weren't much different than what he might find in _The Daily Prophet_. It was the static photos that he found disconcerting. _How could people_ read _this thing?_ He was contemplating the latest Parliamentary squabble over EU trade tariffs when Ginny arrived, breathless and windblown.

"Hey, you!" She rushed in, the scent of Autumn crispness on her — caught up by her sweater and her hair. "Sorry to be late. You _know_ how film work can be." She squeezed into the seat next to him momentarily so she could gather him up in a genuine, if awkward, hug before retreating to her own side of the table. Her legs were already fidgeting beneath the table almost before she had opened the menu. Ron couldn't help but smile. Ginny had always had her own energy: ferocious, effervescent, determined. He imagined it served her well on the _Harpies_.

"Have you decided yet?" Ginny interrupted his thoughts, her eyes on the menu. He folded up the newspaper and placed it to the side, retrieving his own menu.

"You know me, Gin," he answered, shrugging. "I love a good, tangy pork vindaloo."

"Ooooh, vindaloo," she murmured to herself, flipping the pages to the aforementioned meals. Ron smiled to himself as he watched the waiter approach, steaming dish in hand.

"Double order of vegetable samosas, as you please," he announced, placing the fragrant and overly large appetizer on the table between them. Ginny's eyes brightened and she snuck a glance at her brother's sly grin.

"You know me too well," she said, diving into the hot, crunchy deep-fried dumplings of potato and pea. The waiter laid out all the accompanying condiments, including an extra helping of the plum chutney — just the way she liked it. Ron closed his menu.

"I'll order first, shall I?" he teased seeing as how his sister's cheeks were puffed out with the samosa she had just inhaled. She nodded sheepishly and reached for her water glass while Ron held back a snort of laughter.

Meals ordered, Ron broke into a samosa of his own and awaited the arrival of his Kingfisher while Ginny finished up her third dumpling. She finally sat back and seemed to come up for air.

"So, dearest brother," she said, sizing him up while she cleaned the crumbs off her lips, "this has all the trappings of you needing a favor." She smirked at him from across the table. "Or worse yet! You delivering some ultimatum or other from mum. Which is it?"

Ron could only shrug half-heartedly. "You _know_ that mum only means well…"

"RONALD!" Ginny shouted, throwing her linen napkin at his head. "What does she want _now?!_ " She seethed lighted-heartedly as he handed her back her linen.

"I know how you feel, Gin," Ron commiserated. And didn't he? As the youngest male of the Weasley clan, he didn't exactly stand out in any particular thing — not like his brothers had. Charlie — the dragon whisperer. Bill — the hero. Percy — the politician. George — the businessman. And Fred…

Even Ginny had it easier than Ron — the longed-for and only girl in the family, she only had to be herself and she was special. Ron shook his head and thanked his lucky stars for Hermione. It was the best thing he'd ever done — at least he and his mother agreed on that. It also kept one Molly Prewett Weasley off his back. _Mostly_.

"She's always all over me about going back to the Ministry, or when Hermione and I are going to start having kids. She's a nightmare." Ginny seemed to nod along in agreement, but Ron thought he saw a sudden greenish cast to her complexion "You ok, Gin?"

"Huh?" she asked, not looking at him, her hands slowly reaching for her napkin. "Oh, yeah," she snapped back, with a smile. "I just don't want to hear any more of her complaining about me, and Quidditch, and how dangerous it is." Her eyes darted around again, away from him. Ron frowned but said nothing; he knew that talking about their personal lives didn't always come easy for Ginny or Harry either, for that matter. _They are well suited that way._

Abruptly, Ginny jumped up. "I'll be right back." She dashed off towards the back of the dining room, leaving Ron stunned, as he turned in his seat to stare off after her. Their main dishes arrived — not unexpectedly — a few moments hence, and Ron's attention was brought back to the now half empty table.

"The vindaloo?" a young man in crisp whites asked as Ron pointed to himself. He gracefully put the other plate down in front of the empty spot across the table and retreated. The smell made his mouth water, and Ron found himself inclined to dig in, but managed to squelch the impulse in an effort to not be rude. He wanted to wait for Ginny's to come back so they could eat together. So, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He glanced about nervously, trying to decide if it was his place to go looking for her. After another ten minutes of delay, he made his move. _This is taking far too long._ He was halfway along the length of the bar when he saw Ginny's small form re-emerge from the back hallway where the restrooms were located. She looked wan. Ron found himself picking up his pace.

"Where have you been? Are you okay?" He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders that she didn't fight as they made their way back to the table. She slid into the booth, slowly. "Are you in pain?" Ron asked, concern written all over his face. He'd noticed the bruise on her forearm, and he thought she was wearing more makeup than he was accustomed to seeing her in. Now that he focused on her, he thought her under eyes seemed dark.

"Maybe mum's not wrong," he said, a bit out of breath as he sat down, worry creasing his face. "I mean, I know she's a nag and all, but seriously, Gin…" He broke off when he realized his sister was shaking, her body wracked with silent, uncontrollable laughter.

"Just _what_ is so amusing?" he demanded, thoroughly annoyed. This only seemed to make Ginny laugh more.

"When did you become such an old woman?" She finally gasped out between snorts and hiccups. Secretly, Ron was just grateful for the blush on her cheeks — at least she was beginning to look like herself again.

"What was I supposed to think?" He pouted, spreading his napkin over his lap and tucking into his meal. "You were gone _forever_ , and then you were as white as a sheet when you finally came back," he mumbled around his full mouth. He made an effort to swallow, taking a big swig of his lager. "You weren't just 'fixing your face'," he insisted, still stung by the mirth clearly showing on her face.

Ginny paused, putting her own fork down. "No, I wasn't," she said, her voice quiet and calm. "I wasn't feeling well, is all."

"Is it the food?" Ron asked, hastily grabbing up a remaining samosa. He broke it open and sniffed warily.

"No, I'm pretty certain the food is just fine," Ginny replied. She reached out and took Ron's hand, shaking loose the fried dumpling. "It's me," she said, softly, her eyes sparkling.

"What do you mean?" he asked, watching her closely. His 'big brother' instinct was hard to quell. He might have always been the youngest son and brother, but he was still older than Ginny — and that had come with an intuition to protect her. Yet he wouldn't deny that his baby sister didn't need much protecting these days — or maybe ever, if he were honest with himself. Still, as they sat in the watery sunlight of the late autumn afternoon, she looked as vulnerable as he had ever seen her. Fragile, even.

She squeezed his hand. "It's _me_ ," she emphasized one more time. Ron sensed that she'd prefer he figure out what she was getting at, but he wasn't following her thread. _I knew I should've brought Hermione with me._ She _would know what's going on._ Sheepishly, he just stared at her.

Ginny just shook her head, her shoulders going slack with the realization that she would have to spell it out. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and bowled him over. "I'm pregnant."

The clatter of silver on the tiled floor was as loud as any slammed door or exploding firework, even in the moderately busy restaurant, but Ron barely noticed. His eyes were glued to Ginny; words escaped him. Their waiter rushed over, eager to help.

"Is everything alright here, sir?" the young man asked, bending down quickly to pick up the lost fork from the floor. He surreptitiously replaced the full setting of flatware, sliding it towards Ron. No one even noticed him.

It was Ron who broke the silence, finally. "Well, _this_ ought to shut mum up for a while." Ginny couldn't help but giggle and the spell was broken. He smiled at her; it was tentative, at first — waiting for the approval of her return — but when she smiled back, it was simple. He was happy; really and truly. Happy for his sister, happy for his mate, and happy for all the wonderful things yet to come.


	12. The Rain King

Author's Note: Written for Round 13 of the QLFC 6 — Trick or Treat

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Ashwinder (trick): write about someone who seeks revenge and its consequences

Add'l Prompts Used:

6 (weather) rainy

8 (word) morose

9 (phrase) drop of a hat

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1761

 **A/N: AU**

There was a lot a discussion and debate about the circumstances and timing of Severus Snape taking up his position at Hogwarts — and his motivation for it. I enlisted almost the whole team in this effort since we all had different perceptions and remembrances of how, when and where it was all decided. Ultimately, I think that I came to understand that my initial perception might have been the closest to reality — it was all left rather unsaid and unspecific. Which gives me room to play.

There is nothing in the canon strictly stating when Snape starts his position at Hogwarts and no follow-up on when Slughorn specifically leaves. It is all agreed that it is in 1981 and beyond that, there is little specificity. It is also unclear that when Snape agrees to do "anything" to protect Lily and her family that he is immediately employed to teach. If anything about that memory stands out upon re-read, it is that Dumbledore doesn't seem to expect Snape at all, much less has a plan for using him. I believe that Snape's usefulness to Dumbledore and as a part of the resistance is only a concept that develops over time once it is clear that Snape is not a true loyalist. Here I may be insinuating a theory that Slughorn leaves mid-year, instead of during a summer holiday when it might be expected — and for some, that will seem like it diverges from cannon.

However, the bigger conundrum for us all seemed to be who knew what, and when did they know it?

Because we all know how the books end, we come into these stories knowing how everything turns out eventually. That makes setting things in the past difficult, because sometimes we have to pretend we don't know things we know we do — unless we believe that _some_ people knew all along. And that is certainly my implication here. I have never for, one moment, thought that Dumbledore believed that Voldemort was finished when he was "defeated" by a baby . Yet he spends quite a bit of time pretending the opposite — at least when it comes to interacting with Harry. It seems incongruous to me that he would not have confided these suspicions to, at least, a small, trusted number of confidants so that, when the time came, they would be prepared for Tom's return; it is what they seem to be preparing for all along.

Suffice it to say, I believe that Dumbledore would have confided in Snape almost immediately. It was an act of trust that Dumbledore was clearly showing and investing in Snape at a time when Snape was vulnerable and exposed, and it would have equalized their footing and made a partnership possible instead of Snape being more of a hostage to his circumstances. It is hard for me to imagine that Snape would have stayed in his position through all those years when Voldemort was "dormant" if he was only ever afraid of being exposed by Dumbledore; there had to be more to it and I believe it comes down to trust and respect.

As for whether or not Snape finally signs on to take on the role of double-agent before or after Lily and James' deaths, the verdict still seems to be out. The HP Wiki page has a direct quote that is linked back to the _Deathly Hallows_ , which is also how I believed I had read it, stating that Snape does not become a double-agent until after the attack in Godric's Hollow. But I have received serious pushback from others who have indicated that they thought that Snape's commitment was only fortified by Lily's demise and that it had been his intention from the moment he offered "anything" to Dumbledore to take on his lifelong duty as agent to both sides. Certainly, many readers have strong feelings about Snape and about his intentions; for that reason I am marking this AU in the interest of allowing for differing views on the character and his intentions, implied and otherwise.

One final note on possible divergence from cannon: it was suggested that Voldemort might have pushed Snape to teach at Hogwarts, although I struggled to find the reference myself. Here I suggest that Dumbledore is pushing for it, and I am not beyond the suggestion that "great minds think alike" only that I am not presenting any suggestion that Snape is aware of Voldemort's desire for him or anyone to be installed at Hogwarts at this particular moment in time.

A few additional, non-character notes:

I have used morose as a feeling here as much as a word.

With much love and thanks to my husband for being such a big fan of the Counting Crows, who inspired my title.

 **Beta Love: Story, Please** , **crochetaway** , **Ebenbild** , and **Sehanine** — and truly, all of **Pride** for their input and and support during this round.

 **The Rain King**

Revenge. It had always been with him, for as long as he could remember; even now. And while those he wanted his revenge against had changed, it always felt the same; the gnawing in his belly of raw hate. He stood, soaked to the skin, waiting in a deluge — a man grown yet still answering to the whims and whimsy of others — his life forfeit. There was almost no more thought to it ever being different. Only revenge burned cold and glowing in his heart, like a frozen ball of gas in space or the silvery light of the moon spilling across a marble floor. Icy.

Many choices had been made for him; long before he had a say in his life. Yet even when the opportunity for him to make his own choices came his way, he only knew how to muck them up. It was all he had ever seen; all he'd even known.

So, it was no surprise that Severus Snape found himself waiting in the pouring rain on the corner of Knockturn Alley, drenched to the skin and brooding. He never bothered to cover his head; he wasn't even sure why anymore. There was just a part of him that felt as if he'd earned the discomfort of being cold and wet and miserable. Especially now. Nothing mattered, now.

"Stop pouting." A deep voice broke into his thoughts. Rabastan Lestrange approached like a long, dark shadow from down the narrow gap between _Moribund's_ and _Noggin and Bonce_. Even Severus could appreciate the cleverness of the disguise. The two of them, walking together, could easily have passed for twins when seen from behind; brothers from the front. They were more alike than Severus felt comfortable admitting.

"Dare I ask how you managed _this_ one?" he drawled, his voice betraying none of the anxiety he felt.

"Have I taught you _nothing_?" Rabastan's face contorted in disapproval. He grabbed Severus by his arm, twisting him bodily so that they were side-by-side, and pressed him down into the narrowest of lanes, just off _The Spiny Serpent_. They were close; so close that even a whisper was easily heard. "What are you _thinking_? Any hint — any _NOTION_ of deception could cost us _both_ before this venture even gets off the ground!"

Severus stopped, abruptly. He was done being led around by the nose. "It's going to cost me far more than it's going to cost you, Albus."

"Fool that you are," his companion hissed back, "it _already_ has. You think you'd learn when to keep your mouth shut."

Only the incessant patter of the rain could be heard as they stood in silence. Severus felt his hands clenching, involuntarily. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold back his basest instincts. There was only so much one man could take…

"Just keep in mind, Severus, I'm under no obligation here. To you or anyone. _You_ came to _me_."

"For _her_. I needed to be sure she would be _protected_!"

"And she is." His face — inches from Severus' own — twisted in fear and despair, betraying to clearly a lack of confidence the statement just made.

 _His_ expression— _not his_ face _._ Severus thought, correcting himself.

"You said you'd do _anything_. Time to prove it." Severus lost hold of the last thread of his composure, but their tight quarters almost completely precluded any wand motions. Dumbledore had chosen wisely, as he was apt to do. Severus was left with only his hands. He wrapped them around the other man's throat, pressing him back into the brick behind him. The solid _'thunk'_ of his head against the wall was satisfying.

"Take your hatred out on someone who _deserves_ it, Severus. Like yourself." Dumbledore's derision could not be hidden beneath Rabastan's visage. It was a punch in the gut. Severus pushed once more, only this time he withdrew his hands. His need for retribution was still a burning hot coal in his gut; it was much too soon to serve it. Loath as he was, he would need to play to win the long game. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as if that could keep them from involuntarily resuming their murderous bent. And the rain streamed down, plastering his hair to his face, running down his nose, dripping and pooling around his feet.

"You can't just change things at the drop of hat, A—" Severus caught himself short before he uttered the name again.

"It hasn't changed," his companion growled. The glamoured form re-initiated his walk down the alley. Severus had no choice but to follow. Dumbledore might be the only person on earth left he could trust, and he only had himself to blame for that, too. "But it _is_ time to flesh out the details, and quickly."

"I can only give you information if I have it," Severus snarled back, "and, at the moment, I lack anything of use. I'm just another foot soldier. A nobody."

"Your usefulness to me, and to the whole of the resistance, is limited where you are now."

"I can only push so hard. The Dark Lord does not suffer—"

"You can offer something to Tom that no one else can. Something that even _he_ couldn't get, but desperately wanted." Rabastan's face twisted itself into a smile worthy of a true Lestrange. "If I'm not mistaken, it is something he _still_ wants."

Severus was certain he wasn't going to like where this was headed. "And what, pray tell, would that be?"

"Hogwarts. Or, at least, access to it," came the answer. Severus looked for any and every hint that Albus was joking but it was impossible to read through his assumed form.

"I don't understand."

"I'm not entirely sure I do, either," Dumbledore replied. "I know that he was adamant about staying at Hogwarts beyond his school years, though. Headmaster Dippet said he must have asked him a hundred times if he could remain and teach." Severus saw as the equally drenched form of his companion quickly checked his watch, his eyes drifting down the alley towards something. "He even threatened him."

"Threatened him? To _stay_ at Hogwarts?"

"Mmm-hmm," Dumbledore nodded in agreement, picking up his pace. They crossed over a fast-running stream of rainwater that carried more than its fair share of loose garbage and fallen leaves. Severus crossed through it without even making an attempt at avoidance. The water that seeped into his shoes completed his misery — a morose statement on his lack of caring about anything anymore.

"And while I can't be sure of what it is, I would not hesitate to venture that it is important. At least to Tom." Dumbledore continued, oblivious to his co-conspirator's inner turmoil. "So, when I offer _you_ placement on the faculty—"

"Wait, what?" Severus was jolted. "Placement at Hogwarts? You mean — to _teach_?" Severus could think of several thousand things he'd rather do — they included having his toenails ripped out manually with pliers, or Muggle-style dental work, or even telling the Dark Lord the truth about this meeting. None of those things, at the moment, seemed nearly as revolting as what Dumbledore was proposing. It was also an unhappy reminder that, no matter what he convinced himself in his darkest, private moments, he still had some semblance of a desire for survival floating around in what he had thought was an empty shell. _Damn you, Albus. Damn you to hell._

"Horace has decided, rather abruptly, that he has run out of steam and desires retirement to a warmer clime. Rather immediately, I am afraid." The face of Rabastan Lestrange looked at Severus with the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. They were running out of time, in more ways than one. "I find myself in urgent need, and who better to come than yourself?"

"I don't see how _he'll_ find that advantageous," Severus mumbled, feigning a disinterest he certainly didn't feel. Hadn't he wanted the worst? Hadn't he desired death so he could be reunited with Lily? Or at least be released of the grief every day without her was. Now, as Dumbledore dangled the carrot of life in front of him, he found himself lunging at it — it was just another betrayal. "How could it possibly benefit _him_ if _I_ end up at Hogwarts?"

"Information, for a start," Dumbledore replied, calmly, as if he weren't talking about treason. Severus could only stare at him blankly. "Every move will require sacrifice, Severus. From myself included." Dumbledore stopped and flexed his hands, his fingers clearly elongating as a few age spots reappeared. It was clear that the Polyjuice potion was wearing off. "I will have to feed you things to keep Tom's interest. Some of which may be costly to our fight." His eyes turned down and away from Severus. "It is not the position that I would wish for myself, or you, or anyone. But it might be the best chance we have."

"And me?" Severus asked. "What would you have of me?"

"Information in return. The same kind — just enough to help us continue to resist, but not so much to blow your cover."

"I— I can't, Albus," he whispered. "You don't understand how powerful he is!"

"I understand that he started off as a lost, lonely boy — much like yourself," Albus' clear, blue eyes sparkled beneath increasingly bushy eyebrows as he continued to lose his grip on his disguise. "He's just a man, Severus — just like you or I — and he _can_ be defeated. I _know_ he can." He reached in to grab Severus' arm, squeezing it tightly. Severus winced, his eyes immediately drawn to Albus' own, searching for some sort of comfort — for some confirmation that he wasn't asking him to do what he _knew_ he was.

" _Help_ me. You might be the best chance we have," he sighed, pulling up the hood on his cloak to hide his changing face. "Help _us_ all."

"You know full well I can't say no if I want to survive," came the reply.

"I'm not sure you can survive either way, to be honest."

"I know."

"He has _her_ eyes, you know. Harry does."

Severus stumbled back against a wall as if he had been physically hit. "You should go." It was all he could manage to say.

"Come back to Hogwarts," Dumbledore put in, making one last plea. "And maybe one day soon you will see them for yourself."

By the time Severus had picked his head up again, he was alone. As always.


	13. His Ghost

Author's Note: Written for Round 1 of Finals — QLFC 6 — Theory of Relativity

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Back to the Future

Add'l Prompts Used:

2 (colour) coral

4 (word) mindless

8 (poem) Youth — James Wright

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2807

 **A/N: AU**

Even with the inclusion of _The Cursed Child_ there is no canon in which Harry and Ron try to go back in time to do something differently from their past. With that said, and the premise of the Back to the Future franchise, this story can only exist in an alternative universe.

Also, I have altered how well hidden the Trio was while they were on the run and hunting Horcruxes. I needed at least some visual contact with the "young trio" (representing the past) in order to put the "future" into perspective. Again, this falls under the AU designation.

Inspiration from _Youth_ , the poem by James Wright came in a few forms. It's reflection on life and the choices we make felt deeply personal, and I wanted this story to have that sort of feeling; that is was about the quality of Harry and Ron as individuals, but also as friends. It also inspired my title as I thought of Ron being haunted by this particular episode of his youth in his later years—as we all are like to do when we consider "the path not taken".

Finally, I only make cursory allusions to the physics-bending time travel that is used in Back to the Future with the assumption that most people are familiar with it—and that "getting it right" isn't possible since the science is pretty much invented. All we know for sure is, it works—sort of like magic. The important parts to me are the poignancy of the car, recalling some of H+R's first adventures, and how changing the past isn't always better for the future they might return to. Even though Marty McFly returns to something a bit better for his meddling in past events, ultimately, he gets his family back which is really all he wants; and that is what I try to convey here for Ron and Harry both.

 **Beta Love:** Many thanks to all the support from Story, Please, crocheaway, and LitFreak89

 **His Ghost**

Harry closed his eyes. It helped with the nausea. He hadn't ever been carsick before, but, then again, he was driving with Ron. _Only Ron could have convinced me to do this. Again._

It had all started just a few short days ago. Harry awoke to women screaming in his small, overcrowded flat. Ginny, having spent a rare night with him rather than the team, had been sleepily wending her way through the small living room only to practically trip over a body on the couch. Hermione, still half-asleep herself and more than mildly affected by her war experience, hexed first and asked questions later. By the time Harry shrugged on a robe and stumbled out of his bedroom, the main room of the flat was a disarray of exploded pillows, floating feathers, and two very irate females—one of whom was in a full-body bind.

"What in the _hell_ is this, Harry?!" Ginny shouted from the floor. Her body may not have been able to move, but the color of her face told him all he needed to know about how she felt. He looked across the room to Hermione, her wand still at the ready, her hair a fright of curls and knots. He knew that her instincts had kicked in; even all these years later, it didn't pay to sneak up on one Hermione Jean Granger.

"It's okay, Hermione," he said, softly. "You're here, with me. Harry." He reached out, slowly closing the distance between them, waiting for the fog of her adrenaline-fueled panic to lift and the recognition to dawn on her face. These days, it took less and less time.

"Harry?" She nodded, as if convincing herself. Her focus sharpened and she looked at him with recognition. "Harry," she breathed, her arm slowly retracting, along with her wand. "Ginny!" Hermione attempted to rush over to her, but Harry blocked her progress.

"Maybe _I_ should do the honors?"

" _Someone_ had better do _something_!" Ginny snarled. This was going to be quite a row.

"Ginny, I'm sorry. It's just— you—you startled me," Hermione stammered, her face crumpling with remorse as Ginny stormed silently out of the room. Harry shrugged, driving his hands deeper into his pockets. He knew how this would go.

Ginny reappeared in minutes, her coral jumper pulled unceremoniously over her wild, loose hair and one of Harry's pajama tops. She was still shoving her arms through the sleeves. "I don't know _what_ this is, Harry," she yelled, looking from him to Hermione and back, "but you need to get it sorted. And quick!" She pulled a knit cap down over her head and flung on a coat from the rack before she stormed out into the hall of the complex, a whirlwind of jealousy and knitwear.

"Ginny?" Harry called after her, leaning out the doorway. "Come on, Gin…" Hermione heard him wander down the hall, and walked into the small kitchen to put the kettle on.

The kettle was at a boil when she heard only one set of footsteps come back inside. She leaned back away from the stovetop to peek around the corner. "Sorry," she said.

"It's not your fault," he sighed, flopping down onto the broken-down sofa that had served as her bed. "These Weasleys will be the death of us!" he said, flinging an arm over his eyes as he leaned back into the cushions.

Hermione brought over a steaming mug of tea and sat next to her friend.

"What did Ron do _this_ time?" he asked, not looking up.

"It's not really about what he _did_..." she started, her voice choking up suddenly. "It never really is, is it?"

This scenario had played itself out so many times in the past he barely needed to pay attention. He sipped at his tea and let Hermione cry herself out.

* * *

Ron came by later, after work; Harry could always count on seeing him the night after he woke up to Hermione on the couch.

"Well, Ginny's got herself in a right tizzy this time," he announced as he slid the remaining lagers in the fridge minus the two he'd palmed for him and Harry.

"As always, I appreciate that you're family," Harry said, taking a swig from his bottle, "but as I've said before, I'm not keen on talking about my and Gin's romantic woes with you."

"Yeah," Ron nodded in agreement. "I get that. It's only…"

 _It's only that_ I'm _having trouble with Hermione, and I need to feel like I've helped you before I lean on_ you _to help_ me _._ Harry waited for Ron to get around to it. He always did. It was as reliable as the sun rising.

* * *

Now, as he sat in this blasted Muggle car—the very same one he and Ron had stolen all those years ago—as it hurtled its way down the narrow alley along the length of Gringotts Bank at an alarming rate, he wondered how in all of the Wizarding World he had gotten here.

 _I just didn't want to fight with my girlfriend about my best friend sleeping on my couch._ He pressed his eyelids closed and held his breath. The light was blinding, and the jolt the car took stole his breath.

As the car coasted to a halt, they both exhaled. "She should've just given me the damn Time Turner," Ron groaned. Harry could only manage to shake his head—it was an argument they'd had a thousand times. Even if Hermione _did_ still have a Time Turner—which Harry suspected she might—there was no way could have allowed it to be used by Ron, or Harry for _any_ reason. Time Turners had been outlawed; and for good reason. Altering the past was a crime.

 _So why am I here?_

"You ok?" Ron asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Honestly?" Harry asked, "It was worse than my first side-by-side Apparation, but I haven't thrown up, so I guess I'm alright." Harry slowly opened his eyes, pressing his hands to his face. From what he could tell, he was still all in one piece. "So, how do we know if we did it?" He looked across the seat at his red-headed friend. "How do we know if we've gone back to 1997?"

Ron stared down at red-lit console, mindlessly, his eyes just a bit glazed. "Well, it looks like we did."

"I'm going to need a bit more confirmation than that." Harry grabbed at the handle, pushing the car door open as he practically fell out into the street. His legs felt like jelly, and he was thankful for the stability the car itself provided. Getting himself re-oriented, he strode into the nearest shop before Ron had a chance to stop him. He returned with a small, brown paper bag and an anxious look on his face.

"We should get going," he said, hurriedly looking over his shoulder for the third time in as many seconds.

Ron's eyebrows shot up, asking without asking the critical question.

"Yes," Harry nodded anxiously. "Somehow, _some way_ , you've done it. Look!"

Ron opened the bag and pulled out a Cornetto. Harry reach in after him and pulled out the receipt.

"November 10, 1997," he pointed. "Look—right there!" Ron grabbed up the paper, a smile spreading across his face as the reality of their accomplishment settled in.

"We _DID_ it!"

"And I've just shown my face in a store where it's sure to be reported, being that I'm only _slightly_ more wanted than you are. So, we'll need to get going and quick," Harry snapped, feeling frazzled and more than a little annoyed at himself. _How could I have doubted that Ron would manage to pull this off? He always comes through when I least expect it._

Ron recoiled, and Harry instantly felt guilty. Still, he couldn't find a way to apologize, so they descended into tense silence. Ron slid the car into gear and glided out into the London traffic. They rode along that way for the better part of an hour—trundling past St. James Park and Buckingham Palace as they made their way to the M4. It was only after they left the jumble of London behind that Harry felt his own worry drain away.

Ron focused on the road, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. As they did, Harry could not help but think on how he'd gotten roped into this adventure to begin with. Somehow, after all the fights and all the breakups he and Hermione had been through, Ron had gotten it into his addled brain that his relationship was suffering because he'd abandoned them all those years ago. That _if_ he had stayed on, then she would respect him more, and _that_ would be all the difference.

"Tosh," Harry said, evidently aloud, as they passed over the Severn.

"What's that? Speaking, are we?" Ron was still sour, _and rightfully so,_ Harry thought to himself.

"I was just thinking," he started, meekly, "that this whole thing is tosh." He could see Ron's glower grow deeper as he started out into the gloom of dusk, his hands tightening harder around the steering wheel. "Ron." Harry reached out, placing a hand gently on his friend's arm. "Ron, please. We should talk."

"I didn't think we were talking," Ron sniped. The speed on the car seemed to surge faster as they plunged down the A48. The river darkened into a black ribbon beside them.

"Maybe we weren't," Harry insisted, his nerves on edge with every kilometer of speed they gained, "but we should. It's important!" He clutched at his seat as Ron took a sharp left off the road onto something far darker and narrower. Within a few moments, he pulled off at a closed picnic site. It was the second time that day that Harry thought he might be ill.

"What is it?" Ron snarled. He'd been stewing over Harry's rudeness from earlier; that was evident. "What pearls of wisdom does 'The Chosen One' have to share with the meek and mild sidekick, Ron Weasley? Oh, _please_. Do tell!"

Harry pursed his lips in the interest of their friendship. He'd been unfair and unduly harsh. He'd had the whole ride to deal with his emotions, all the while never cluing his best friend in to his thoughts; or his regret. He _had_ to allow Ron his anger; he deserved that much.

"Well?" Ron continued, snidely. "I thought we needed to talk?"

"We _do_. But I also need to know you will listen."

"I'm going to miss my window if we don't keep going, Harry," Ron replied, putting the car back into gear and skidding out on the gravel.

"What window?" Harry asked, fumbling to get his seatbelt back on.

"It's tonight," Ron mumbled as he strained to see out into the ever-darkening night. "If that date is correct, tonight is the night, Harry." He paused to look over at him, taking his eyes off the road. "Tonight is the night we all fight and I—I _leave_." The hurt Ron still felt was evident. He jerked his head back to the road, taking a hairpin curve much too quickly and churning up dirt along the shoulder as he skidded ever so slightly off the lane.

"Ron!" Harry yelled, grasping for purchase at the door handle. "You don't need to do this!"

"But I do." He was set, determination written all over his face. He had spend far more time convincing himself of the importance of this one, pivotal moment that Harry had realized.

They screeched to a halt at a small pullout atop a hill, and Ron jumped out, torch in hand, running for the barely discernible trail just visible in the headlights. Harry scarcely had enough time to find the trail himself before Ron's light disappeared over the knoll. He had so many questions he hadn't had time to ask; he never thought they'd get this far.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of chasing after the sound of Ron's feet crunching over stone and leaves with only the occasional glimpse of the torchlight, he tripped over Ron's long legs as they extended out into the path. He was splayed out on the ground looking out into the blackness. Harry crouched down beside him and tried to catch his breath.

"It's just over there," Ron whispered.

"How do you know that?" Harry gasped, still trying to figure out where in the world they were, much less how Ron knew where their silent, invisible, magically protected tent was. Ron only cracked a tight-lipped smile in return. Sadness overwhelmed Harry as he looked at his friend's utter anguish.

"It's the same way I found you the first time," Ron said, quietly.

He went to get up, but Harry grabbed at his leg, pulling him back down to the ground. "Oi!" Ron hissed, trying hard to keep his voice down. "You're going to give our cover away!"

"Ron, have you considered how this might affect the future?"

"Listen, Harry," he seethed through clenched teeth, "I _know_ you think I'm an idiot, but I actually _have_ considered it. More than once."

"And?"

" _And_ I convince my younger self to stay, to fight my sadness and my jealousy, and help with the search." Ron's head drifted back towards the campsite neither one of them could see. "When I do, Hermione will see what a strong person I am. She'll respect me more than she does now." His head hung down. "Maybe we won't fight so much."

"And who will find the Sword of Gryffindor?"

Ron's head snapped up, his eyes wide. He pinched his lips together, thinking. "Neville," he answered, finally, hesitating. "Neville asked for it, and it came. It could just happen sooner."

"And then?" Harry prodded.

"And then what?" Ron frowned, his anger rising again.

"If Neville gets the Sword of Gryffindor sooner, how does he get it to us?"

"I don't know. Maybe _we_ find _him_. We send him a message in the fire, like—like you did with Sirius!"

"Or maybe Bellatrix finds the _real_ sword first and takes it back."

"Or maybe Bellatrix gets killed by a bear trap running through the Ministry!" Ron yelled in desperation as his plan unraveled. "We can't know how it all will change!" He clapped his hand over his mouth as if he could shove the words back in, but it was far too late. They both knew it.

"We _can't_ know how it will change anything, can we?" Harry said softly. "And we can't change the future."

As if on cue, a flash of light fifty feet in front of them sent Harry and Ron both diving for the cover of the scrub as Ron's own younger self emerged from the hidden tent. Young Hermione was dogging him as young Harry stood silhouetted in the doorway. Their _Muffliato_ spell was impenetrable, Harry noted, as not a sound of the row could be heard, but a row it most definitely was; their body language was more than enough to determine that. Fingers were pointed; arms were folded or thrown up in disgust; tears were shed—all in silence.

As young Ron made his last retreat, his cheeks flushed with anger, he reached out towards Hermione. She hesitated; looking at Ron and back to Harry before she folded her arms in a rejection of his offer. Harry hadn't realized until just then how close he had come to going it alone.

Ron tried to get up, but Harry kept a hand on his shoulder. "Let him go, Ron," he pleaded. " _Please_. Let him go his way so he can come back—so _you_ can come back. Just the way you are now." He squeezed his friend's shoulder, tears in his eyes—tears of gratitude that he had such good friends in his life. "I don't know who the Ron Weasley who stayed would be," he whispered. "But I know I've already got my best friend right here." Ron only stared into the black and watched as his younger self made the most painful decision of his life.

And in a flash, it was over.

It was hard not to sit there and watch what came next, but Harry thought it would be in each of their best interests to get back. "We're both going to be in for it when we get home," Ron said.

"Do you remember when you came back?" Harry asked. "Do you remember how it was with Hermione when you finally tracked us down again?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "She hit me and cursed me, and hit me some more."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, okay. But what about after she was done being angry with you?" He waggled an eyebrow at his friend and watch the flush creep up his neck.

"Yeah," Ron mumbled. "I guess it wasn't _that_ bad."

"No," Harry agreed, smiling. "It wasn't bad at all."


	14. Will o'the Wisp

Author's Note: Written for semi-finals — QLFC 6 — Allow me to introduce...

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Salem: Cupid Carries a Gun — Marilyn Manson

Add'l Prompts Used:

6 (character) Rowena Ravenclaw

10 (quote) 'Maybe that's part of the nightmare, having just enough freedom thrown at you to tempt you, knowing it's an illusion.' — Grace & Fury, Tracy Banghart

11 (word) civilisation

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2711

 **A/N: AU**

Marilyn Manson's _Cupid_ was developed in concert with the show it ultimately became mostly closely associated with: _Salem._ As such, it's elements are meant to recall feelings of the dark unknown, the misunderstood and feared, and mostly, the hopelessness of resistance. "Better pray for hell, not hallelujah," the singer intones, and one can not help but to envision the writhing bodies of Puritan girls shaking and swearing on the floor as they call out the names of the demons that possess them — and the witches among them who called them forth.

It is this ambiance, and it's complete antithesis to the world of magic that Rowling creates, that got me thinking about magic in JKR's universe — and if the magic that she details for us was the only magic there available...or if there had, at one point been other magics; darker, wilder magics. Magics that were considered less savory, or somehow less acceptable: Blood magic, magic based in sacrifice and ancestor worship, or the phases of the moon. The sort of magics that Rowling doesn't even address, despite the rich tradition of witchcraft and mysticism in the British Isles.

The inclusion of Rowena Ravenclaw on the optional prompt list immediately got me thinking about the formation of Hogwarts and why, after generations of families controlling the instruction of their children in the home it would be desirable, or even necessary, to start a formalized school for the instruction of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And my mind could only come up with one answer: culture. That it was suddenly important that magic be 1) Codified into a cohesive curriculum of "acceptable" magic, and 2) That it be taught universally so that all _other_ magics would eventually be snuffed out by lack of practice — much like how languages die out. As a historian, it is not unfamiliar to me that "culture" is sometimes an outgrowth of a community; but sometimes it is dictated "from above". The standardization of the French language under Louis XIV or the simplification of Russian by the Soviets are both examples of this sort of cultural homogenization that was implemented by the governing few upon the many. These concepts of culture inform my interpretation of civilization as presented here.

I am suggesting here that the four Founders of Hogwarts may have done the same for magic, for reasons we may never know or understand. Obviously, there is little in the canon to support my theory — beyond basic observation and a bit of applied logic — so, let it be stated clearly that this is not in keeping with Rowling's universe and, as such, should be read as AU.

I would also be remiss if I did not give credit for inspiration to Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_ and Rospo Pallenburg's adaptation for the screen (Excalibur). It's is an extensive exploration of the wild magics and pagan ceremonies of the British Isles; I am humbly in debt to these works. I also need to give credit where it is due to Lev Grossman and his _The Magicians_ series for the idea of the fight between formal and informal magics.

It was also brought to my attention that the understanding of who directly descended from Salazar Slytherin with the addition of the _Fantastic Beasts_ , _Cursed Child_ , and the Pottermore universe, may not be what it was once was. Since I have made brief allusions to his direct line, I am again including a note to be clear that this must be considered AU.

Posca is a water and vinegar mixture most commonly referenced from ancient Roman texts that might best describe the substance used to purify otherwise questionable water so it could be consumed without causing illness. It is my morning beverage of choice since, in a historically accurate world, neither tea nor lemons would be available in Britain, and wine was likely scarce, although wine left over from the Empire - turned to vinegar - could still be consumed as a means of purifying questionable water.

Also, I've taken some spelling liberties in order to create more of a "medieval" feeling, mostly involving "i" replaced with "y", additional "e"s and the continued use of a "k" in places where a hard "c" sound would be adopted in future.

Finally, I toyed with concepts of freedom and choice as an overall homage to the _Grace & Fury_ quote cited. I hope I have done it justice.

 **Will o'the Wisp**

The snow was feather-light on her face, caught up in her eyelashes as she peered from behind the tree out into the night fires. Helena's grandmother had always been partial to their time together over the winter holidays but was particularly thrilled this year. It was special, or so she said.

"And you on the cusp of womanhood," Malory Ravenclaw had intoned as she grasped Helena's shoulders, stepping back slightly so as to take her all in. The older woman's clear, blue eyes had absorbed every detail; it was disconcerting. Yet, it was all Helena had known of her grandmother, and she knew her unblinking scrutiny as love. "Winter Solstice _and_ a full moon," the old woman went on. "Auspicious isn't the word! Come. There is much to do."

Now, as she stood just outside the circle of elder witches, their voices roaring as loudly as the flames they encircled, she, too, turned her face up to the sky to bask in the radiance of the moon. Her body swayed and shifted with the song of earth and sky and gods unnamed and uncounted; and something else gripped her in that moment, as well. Something she had not known before.

 _Power_. _Joy_. Part of a greater whole.

She found her eyes drawn to the fire as it danced and leapt as if it were human. It drew her, and as it did, she closed in on the figures surrounding it, weaving herself into their midst — and into their magic.

As the night waned, Helena found herself alone, staring into the dwindling flames. Malory approached, her form shrunken and hunched; the power that coursed through her gone, leaving her earthly form to show its true age. "Come, child," she said, reaching out a hand. "The Green Man has smiled on us again, and we must tend to the cycle of life that is all around us." Helena rose, silently, as if in a dream. A sudden gust of cold air caught her, and she shivered. Malory wrapped a cloak about her to hide the stain of blood that had collected on Helena's skirts. "Your flower blooms, and soon it will be time for you to play your part in the great becoming."

They made their way back to the safety and warmth of the indoors, the wolf moon bright at their backs.

* * *

"She is filling your head with _nonsense_ , Helena. And I can no longer abide by you coming back here with all of these fanciful dreams stuffed between your ears as if your education had been pushed out in the course of a fortnight." Rowena Ravenclaw had long been exasperated with her mother, but now, as Helena was reaching her age of defiance, her mother's meddling was an even more bitter pill to swallow. They hardly spoke to one another, and they did not visit at all anymore. In truth, Helena was _all_ that they shared, and it seemed that even that bond was about to be broken. "You arrive back home more and more intransigent, and with naught for me but challenges. I'm sorry, Helena, but your extended visits with your grandmother will have to cease, for _she_ is the only common denominator I can find in our escalating confrontations."

It wasn't the first time they had argued about the topic; but _this_ was different.

"I just want to _understand_ , mother," Helena whined, her voice softer if still a bit shrill. "I've never felt like that here. I don't feel _anything_ here."

"Magic isn't about feelings, Helena!" Rowena snapped. "Magic needs to be disassociated from feelings in order to be used properly." She regretted her anger instantly, but only because it was the antithesis to everything she had ever valued; intellect, logic, reason. Passion had no place in Rowena Ravenclaw's life.

"That isn't true. Not even for you!" Helena shouted in frustration. She reached for the carved rosewood box on her mother's desk, snatching it back just out of Rowena's grasp. "This," she said, defiant. "Why do you use _this_ then, if magic isn't about what you feel?" Helena's grasp on the diadem was tight to the point where her skin was white where it came into contact with the silver.

" _That_ is different," Rowena said, calmly. She had never seen a rage like this take Helena before, and she worried for her daughter—worried that her character might not be one of logic and learning. _We sort them too early, perhaps_.

Rowena's thoughts turned to her mother and bristled. Malory's penchant for manipulation was well-known to her daughter, if not yet to her granddaughter. _Who would know that better than I?_ "There is family heritage there," she continued. "The diadem is as much heirloom as it is magical object. I choose to wear it as a display, honoring our deeply rooted family tradition." Rowena saw the determination in her daughter's face falter ever so slightly. She took her opportunity. "Much like your grandmother does in her celebrations at the Solstice, this magic is old and has been in our family for many generations."

Helena's face brightened with triumph. "Yes," she said, almost like she was chanting a sacred hymn. "Yes! We do, mother." Her eyes brightened, but Rowena noticed that her grip had also relaxed on the diadem. "We have a tradition of magic that we should also share here. At Hogwarts."

Rowena was startled by the level of zeal, fervor even, that her daughter displayed. _Her time sitting about the hearth listening to Malory tell stories of fae courts and dancing about toadstool rings has gone on too long._ "That is not possible, Helena," was her terse reply. Rowena had never been one to soften a blow.

"But _why_?"

In that moment, Rowena found herself remembering Helena's early toddling years with a surprising fondness compared the current state of things. They only ever seemed to have two modes of communication of late: constant questioning that devolved into arguments, or sullen, aggrieved silence. From the piercing tone her daughter's voice was taking on, Rowena was certain _this_ conversation would be no different.

"Helena, we have discussed this," she answered, turning her back on the girl and the diadem. Rowena could only hope that her feigned coolness would thwart the fight her adolescent offspring was looking for. "There is a method to the magic we have decided to teach here at Hogwarts. It is predictable and logical; not subject to seasons or clear skies or the gathering of a coven." She sat down behind her large mahogany desk and folded her hands. "And for the last time, it is not up for debate."

Helena looked at her mother and composed her face. Cooly, she placed the diadem back on the desk. "Logic isn't everything, Mother," she said, and she left the room in a dramatic swirl of robes and teenage angst. Rowena could only shake her head and wonder how in the world it had come to this.

* * *

"Her defiance bears all the hallmarks of her coming womanhood," Salazar replied, sipping gingerly at the heavy mead she had served. "Everyone knows that two bitches cannot exist in the same pack."

Rowena could only wince with distaste at his metaphor; it was closer to truth than she liked and she knew better than to let him know he was getting under her skin.

"Truly, it has come about so suddenly with her," was all she said in return.

"There is a reason that girls are often married off young."

Try as she might, Rowena knew she was not successfully hiding her agreement behind her own goblet. "There is something to be said for it," she murmured.

"How did _you_ manage to outwit it?" Salazar asked, his eyes bright with mischief, or so it seemed to Rowena.

She pursed her lips in distaste at the memories that his simple question invoked. "We had — _other_ traditions in the Highlands."

"So the rumours are true?" he smirked. "I should keep that in mind with Lughnasadh approaching…"

"Salazar, you know full well my stance on wylde magiks. I have _many_ reasons behind my drive to 'civilise' magic; some of them personal." She scrutinized her companion; everything from his expression to how he held his seat. Slytherin gave nothing away by chance. "It _is_ how we came to agree so well on the formation of this school, and its educational priority for future generations."

Rowena had never wanted for Helena to know what _she_ knew about how the young were used in the service of the pagan rites and the thirsty spirits of the dark forest. _She should never know how she came to be in the world. I can protect her from that, at least_.

"We do, that" Salazar agreed, interrupting her thoughts. Rowena was grateful. "It is in the mood of accord that I have had a thought; one hope you will consider earnestly as it may solve your problem as well as—" He had the grace to hesitate, she noticed only later, when she had replayed the conversation in her mind. "formalize our _allied_ front," he finished, a close-lipped smile on his face. It had been his greatest wish to force Rowena into declaring herself 'anti-Muggle', as he was. Using her daughter to do it was only the latest in a string of attempts.

Rowena bit back the impulse to cringe. There was no doubt that she and Salazar agreed on many aspects of magic and how the people who wielded it were at least in some ways superior in relation to mundane humanity. However, Rowena was also thankful for her friendship with Helga, and for her friend's deep empathy for all humanity. Helga's perspective, and the lively debate it inspired was part of the delicate balance at Hogwarts. It forced them all to continually challenge their own concepts and understandings of education, and how it would shape the peaceful civilisation they were trying to create.

 _The dialogue is meant to be endless; like the education itself_ , _if we are doing it right_. _I have no intention of "taking a side" — other than my_ own _._

Rowena leaned back into her seat and poured herself another goblet full. "Go on."

"Helena is a willful daughter who needs to be reigned in. I have a nephew who will be my heir since I have no children of my own yet— "

"She's only just thirteen!" Rowena sat upright, her eyes ablaze with indignation. "That would be considered young even by pagan standards."

"Engagements can last for quite a while, Rowena," Salazar purred, his fingers curled together in his lap slowly as a smile broadened across his face. Rowena silently cursed herself for letting her emotions get the better of her; it was never in one's best interest to show weakness to Salazar Slytherin. "Besides," he continued, "I am adept at mathematics, Rowena. I know how young you were when _you_ had _her_ …"

Rowena could feel the blood rush to her cheeks, but she had spent too much time cultivating her facade of logical detachment to allow the mask to slip any more. "It isn't much of a secret, Salazar," she replied, rising as she did so. She took a deep breath and placed her goblet down. "However, isn't _that_ the very thing we are attempting to stamp out here? At Hogwarts?" She looked down at him, meeting his gaze with firm conviction. She knew it was the reason why _she_ had gotten involved in this enterprise. Still, Salazar's true reasons alluded her.

"An alliance of long-standing magical families is not a drunken midsummer orgy, Rowena," he said, his smile widening despite her exertion of rock-steady control over her face. "It would be beneficial for Helena as well as for the greater good of our respective families over the long term."

She had a deep desire to smack him; a repugnant feeling she stuffed down with difficulty. Instead, she buried her hands in her robes, gathering them up with what was left of her dignity. "I will mull it over, Salazar," she managed through clenched teeth as she made her way to the exit.

"Please do," he called after her. "It's time your daughter understood her place."

 _Wasn't that what my mother did to me all those years ago?_ She shuddered at the memory — and perhaps the cold? — and wrapped her cloak more tightly about herself.

* * *

"Married?" Helena was already in tears over her summer holidays in the Highlands being unceremoniously cancelled without so much as a chat over breakfast. _But this? This is just too much to take. Mother has finally lost her mind!_ "I won't," she insisted, stomping her foot for good measure. "It's just not right, mother! I'm only just finishing my third year!"

"It wouldn't happen immediately," Rowena replied, sipping at her morning posca while she continued to read the parchment in front of her. "Engagements can last for years"

"Then why make them at all?!" Helena snapped. She resisted the urge to up-end her mother's goblet, but she was also tired of looking at the top of her head while they were discussing her future. _A future I didn't pick for myself!_

Helena watched as her mother pulled the parchment back with a cool expression."It is a promise; a contract between families," her mother asserted with her eyes as much as her tone of voice. "And it is done, already."

"But what if I don't _want_ to marry?" Helena asked softly. It was the first time in weeks that Rowena had heard a bit of the child left in her daughter; frightened and petulant.

"Unfortunate as it may be, your wants have little to do with it, Helena." Rowena tried, desperately to convey with her eyes all that she wished to avoid saying. "It didn't for me, either," she added, so quietly as to be barely audible, before picking back up her parchment to resume her reading.

"I don't believe you," Helena replied, her voice quiet, but resolute.

"Believe me, or not. Perhaps you should ask your grandmother." Rowena lifted her eyes again to look directly at her little girl. "Go on," she insisted. "Ask her. Ask her if _I_ had anything to say about my 'union'?"

A terrible look overtook Rowena's face; as if she were fighting with herself. "I thought I had freedom, too," she ground out, finally, her body taut and strained. "It was an illusion. It was only ever a pretence, until now." Helena watched as her mother pressed her lips together into a grim, solid line of defence — against what? She knew that she would never know; her mother was a tomb.

Fresh tears spilled from her eyes as she dashed from the rooms they shared. A brief sob was heard in the empty corridors before all returned to quiet, but there would be no more serenity today in Ravenclaw Tower. Only emptiness, and the hollow void of what had gone unsaid.

* * *

Helena stood beneath the canopy of the forest that had only barely been beaten back enough to create space to build the castle that shared its grounds. Already, it was being called the "Forbidden Forest" because one young man was assumed lost after he had entered and never returned. Helena knew better. She knew that the forest provided food, shelter, and a place to hide. It was a refuge; and a foil. _Maybe he just ran away._

A full Flower Moon stood bright in the sky, casting shadows down from the tree branches just beginning to form their leaves. Its light glinted off the diadem in her hand, and she stopped. It seemed to be humming within her grasp, and Helena opened her palm to allow the moonlight to shine down onto it. Behind closed eyes she could feel the power that radiated from it; the push and pull of the tides, the last sighing breath of the earth giving over to a frozen cold embrace of winter, the pulsing of her blood and the whip of wind in her hair. All was one out here; Helena could not know it and turn away.

 _Freedom may be an illusion, but it is mine own_. She turned her back on the castle's proffered warmth, heading deeper into the dark unknown.


	15. At the close

Author's Note: Written for the Final Round — QLFC 6 — This or That

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Character A meets Character B's parents for the first time. Character A tries to hard to impress them.

Add'l Prompts Used:

1 (object) a pair of shoes

14 (first line) She opened her handbag and tipped the contents onto the floor.

15 (exact word count) 1113

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1113

 **A/N: AU**

I struggled from the get-go with this one and went through not a few prompts in the process. Being that this could be my last QLFC piece, I really wanted to challenge myself with the exact word count; it is difficult enough as it is to write an original piece much less to that sort of specification. I am glad I took up the challenge.

Based on the assigned Scenario, I was immediately hit with a desire to make it less than run-of-the-mill, and my thoughts immediately turned to the two characters who presented the most problems with parents - Harry and Hermione - in that, they don't have them, for various reasons. It made a Harmony!AU almost too good to pass up, so I didn't.

How do you impress the dead? Maybe love is enough.

With much love to litfreak89 for introducing me to Harmony. I ship it.

 **Beta Love:** Story, Please, crochetaway and Litfreak89 for all their help and support.

 **At the close**

She opened her handbag and tipped the contents onto the floor, dropping to her knees to search through the rubble. Considering the expansion charm she kept on her already oversized boho, it was a significant mess, to say the least. Harry shook his head in silent bemusement as he sipped his tea, leaning against the door frame separating their meagre kitchenette from the large studio space that was their flat. Being that this was the third time in as many days that he'd watched her go through this ritual, he was growing immune. He had almost managed to turn back to the hob to warm his mug when he nearly spat out his tea.

"Hermione," he asked, "Is that a pair of shoes?"

"Where?" she replied, not looking up from an assortment of buttons she was picking through.

"Over there." He pointed, though she wasn't paying attention. It was the fifth pair she had flung out of her bag that morning, and he couldn't help but wonder why she might need _that many sensible shoes_?

"Got it!" she declared, a look of triumph on her face as she stood, her hand tightened into a fist.

"I don't understand, Hermione. Five pair of oxfords?" he sputtered, grabbing a hold of the nearest pair. "Three of which all appear to be _brown_?"

"Don't judge me," she said in a failing attempt to scold him that broke down into a kiss to the end of his nose. Suppressing a giggle, she swiped the shoe back from him and went about clearing up the mess she'd made. With a flick of her wrist, her purse was uprighted onto the table next to their dilapidated sofa as if nothing had happened. Harry plopped down, his tea precariously close to spilling as he sunk low into the cushions.

Already fully dressed for work, Hermione joined him, sitting daintily on the arm of the couch instead. "I've been thinking," she said, leaning towards him. "Would it be gauche to put a couch on our wedding registry?" Harry barely held back a snort of laughter. They had taken over his flat, and its contents, mostly made up of the sort of things one might find in the dormitory of a local uni frat. His broken down couch was the _least_ of the furniture items they would need to replace. However, it was a temporary, and happy, respite from the Wizarding World's unbearably small social circles. They had both broken ties with a Weasley; lingering animosity was just par for the course. Thankfully, their rejection had been mercifully brief.

"I think we can do whatever we like," he said. "It's _our_ wedding." He smiled. He dearly loved the sound of that. Hermione's face brightened, too, and she reached down to squeeze his hand before rising to walk into the kitchen and pour herself a thermos full of tea. It was a sweet, quiet revelry that was interrupted by the chime of the clock.

"Oh, good gracious," she gasped, "I've _got_ to _go_!"

"But it's only just seven?" Harry complained.

"I know, I know…but I have an early meeting." She slipped him a kiss and dashed for the door. Harry couldn't help but notice that she wasn't using the Floo. Again. _She doesn't want me to know where she's going_. He approached the window to watch her leave, trying desperately not to let his mind wander.

 _It_ is _almost Christmas,_ he thought, and he convinced himself that her odd behaviour of late was all in the spirit of the season. He turned his mind to his own impending work day and shuffled off to dress.

* * *

Her hand fidgeted in his as they approached the cemetery. The cold was bracing. It reminded him of the first time they'd been here.

"Tell me again," he asked, his breath visibly misting in the chill, "why are we here tonight?" The church bells chimed the start of Christmas Eve services. "I mean, besides the obvious."

"I needed to _do_ something," Hermione replied. She smiled, but her voice faltered with obvious nervousness. "Tonight seemed as good a night as any." She inhaled deeply as they approached the iron gate, looking up at the winter sky, full of stars. "Here, as good a place as any…" Harry wasn't sure if she was even talking to him anymore.

They'd brought an evergreen wreath that Hermione had laboured to decorate with a red velvet bow and some holly sprigs. Harry leaned down to clear a spot on his parents' gravestone his parents shared and was almost surprised at the tears. Almost.

He felt Hermione's left hand on his shoulder for just a moment. Her support — her love — had been a pillar of strength for him through the toughest times. She was always there.

He fixed the wreath in place and was about to rise when he felt the lightest touch of warmth on his cheek. He looked up into his mother's eyes.

"Mum?"

She only smiled at him in that winsome way she had whenever he saw her beyond the astral plane; more reflection than real. Harry would never know if that was who his mother had truly been, or just what she'd become in whatever came after this life was over.

He stood and turned, taking in the figure of his father; a proud smile on his face. James raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "That's some witch you've got there."

Harry looked at her, the small piece of the Resurrection Stone clutched in her hand — her spell cast silently through his own wand so as to accomplish the feat. The bright blush on Hermione's cheeks from the cold air hid any hint of embarrassment from him, but the way she turned her eyes away told Harry all he needed to know about how she felt.

"I wanted to make sure they thought I was worthy," she whispered, her eyes looking up at each of his parents in turn. "I wanted them to know. I love you, Harry." She kneeled in the snow, her face raised to catch the moonlight as she released her grip on the stone. "I'm sorry," she breathed, "it was selfish."

He kneeled beside her, taking her in his arms as the sound of hymnals from the nearby church filled the air. "Not selfish," he replied, kissing her. "It was brilliant. But how—"

"You talk in your sleep," she said, suddenly shy. She reached inside her bag and pulled out the golden orb, opening her palm so it glittered in the moonlight. "All I needed to do was place this near your pillow while you slept…"

And the rest, as they say, is history.


End file.
